


Just Leave Me Alive

by annalore



Category: Mixed Martial Arts RPF, Professional Wrestling, Ultimate Fighting Championship RPF, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Ankle Socks, Fantasy Booking, M/M, Punk is broken
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalore/pseuds/annalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Brooks, aka Punk, a rising star in the UFC, is well known as a hot tempered bad boy with a degenerate image. John Cena, former 10 time WWE Champion, a man entering the closing chapter of his career, has a reputation as a kid friendly do gooder. When John attends a UFC show at the invitation of an old friend, the two meet and sparks predictably fly, but the they end up discovering that they share more common ground than they ever would have thought. The relationship they form ends up changing both of their lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Champ Is Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JacAlley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacAlley/gifts).



**Saturday, August 18, 2012**  
 **Anaheim, California**  
 **The Honda Center**

 

Even through the cinderblock walls of the arena, Punk could hear the noise of the crowd. It had quieted down in the lull between the finish of one fight and the start of the next. He was up next; they would be calling for him soon. He already had his team in his ear, pumping him up, repeating strategy like a litany, giving him all the last minute advice they could. The words slid off him like water. His vision was narrowed to a pinpoint, already looking forward to the cage and the man that would be waiting for him inside.

Finally, the call came. He stood up from the chair he’d been sitting on, elbows on his knees, forehead pressed to his gloved hands in a prayer position, and shook himself out, bounced on his heels a few times. He exited first. He looked to the left and saw Chael Sonnen leaning against a wall just down the hall. He stared at the man for a long second, before noticing a camera was already trained on him. Chael winked in his direction; Punk turned to the right and started the long walk out into the arena. His team followed behind him as the cameraman walked backwards in front of him, and between them he made his way through the warren of hallways that would spit him out amongst the crowd roaring his name. He heard Rener’s voice in his ear the entire time, drowning under the growing buzz. He paused at the entranceway, taking one last breath. He could hear the strains of his music over cheers and screams. He turned towards his trainer, and Rener wrapped his arms around Punk and leaned in close. “You’re a killer. Remember that.”

This was the important advice. This was the advice he was meant to hear, above all the words that had been said to him today. He nodded even as he pulled away. He could feel the production assistants hovering around them, getting antsy as he used up valuable pay-per-view time. With a grin and a wink to the camera, he mimed punching Rener in the face and mouthed “Pow” for the people watching at home, then continued his walk. People shouted his name, people reached out and tried to touch him, but he was focused on the clearing in the middle of the throng. The octagonal cage, lit up by bright spotlights, a beacon in the dark.

His opponent, Yushin Okami, currently ranked at number 9 in the world in the middleweight division, had entered first. He was already in the Octagon, pacing, trying to keep his adrenaline up and his nerves down. Punk glanced at him once, then turned away, focused on taking off his walkout gear. He kicked off his flip flops and his warm ups, pulled his sponsor shirt off awkwardly with his wrapped and gloved hands and shoved it into someone’s waiting hands.

Down to just his shorts, hugged Rener one last time, then threw in the rest of his team for good measure. The demands of tradition satisfied, he turned to the cutman. He had Stitch working for him now, because his skin split easily, and because Rener believed he needed the best. He’d done with less so often in his life, he wasn’t sure how to process the notion, but now was not the time or place.

He stepped onto the Bud Lite logo and closed his eyes as Vaseline was smeared over his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose. Then there were more hands on him as the official came to check his mouth guard, his gloves, his cup, and he was home free. He took the steps into the cage slowly, deliberately. _I am being locked in here by choice_ , he said. _Nobody can cage me._ The rhetorical flourishes almost mattered more, in the end. Ability and technique won fights. Stories sold them.

As he waited for the announcers he couldn’t hear to run down his stats for the television audience, Punk let his eyes wander over the cageside seats. He knew Eve was in the crowd tonight, and there was always something special about that for him. He didn’t believe in luck, but he did harbor romantic notions about her as his patron lady.

He spotted her easily. She was in the front row, just to the side of his corner. Her bronze skin glowed in the low light and her hair fell in luxurious soft curls, but it was her smile that drew your eyes to her. Their eyes met across the short distance, and she bestowed that smile on him. He mocked a courtly bow at her. She inclined her head in response. As she did it, he caught a brief motion of her hand to the seat next to her; it was then that he noticed that she had someone with her.

Punk frowned. Sitting next to Eve was a tall, almost generic looking guy in jeans and a dark colored shirt with a buzzed head and an easy look about him. Eve was leaning in his direction, talking comfortably, like they knew each other well. Punk knew he should recognize that face, but it took him a second to place it, and then he did. He slammed his hands against the cage and the fencing shook and rattled under the pressure.

Eve didn’t react, but John Cena did, confusion marring his genial features. As if he thought that he belonged here, in this world. As if he thought he belonged next to Eve. For a moment, Punk forgot that he was about to fight. All he wanted to do was go out there and—

"Hey," Rener called to him sharply.

Punk broke his stare down and stalked back to his sponsor banner. Rener was holding out a bottle of water at him. He wasn’t thirsty, but he took it out of habit and poured some past his mouth guard before handing the bottle back. The last thing he wanted was an argument about staying hydrated.

When he turned around, Bruce Buffer was entering the cage to start the introductions. As he stepped to the center of the cage, Punk tried to hide how badly he’d been shaken out of his cold, prefight focus.

“In the red corner, Yushin ‘Thunder’ Okami, fighting out of Kanagawa, Japan,” he heard vaguely. He struggled not to look back at his own corner, at John Cena, WWE Superstar, sitting outside, watching him. “In the blue corner, Phil ‘Punk’ Brooks, fighting out of Torrance, California, by way of Chicago, Illinois.” On cue, he raised his arm for the camera.

The referee, Herb Dean, came out and reminded them of the rules, recited the lines he’d probably said a thousand times or more. He and Okami touched gloves, and the fight was on.

 _Start slow_ , he thought. _Feel him out, find your range._ Complete and utter bullshit. He ran straight at Okami, head ducked low, and shot for a takedown. Okami stuffed it, stayed on his feet long enough to get his back against the cage. _Fuck._ But they separated clean, danced around each other. Stood and traded blows. Combinations of punches and kicks that came and went in flurries. Time was slipping off the clock like it was nothing.

He held his arms straight out, slightly lowered, silently begging Okami to come for him. When he did, Punk spun around at the last second, threw a back elbow; it landed perfectly, and fuck, did it feel amazing. Okami staggered, and backed up against the cage as Punk surged forward.

They struggled for position and he was down on his back before he knew what was happening. He got Okami in his full guard, and they grappled, grabbing at arms, legs, occasionally throwing punches. He could hear his corner screaming advice, telling him which way to move. Telling him he needed to try harder, but if it felt good to score a big hit, it didn’t feel terrible to be hit, either.

Then the horn blew to signal the end of the round, and Herb Dean was there, making sure they separated cleanly. Punk rolled out of the hold and stood. More than anything, he was dying to see what Cena thought of him now, but Rener was in the cage, pulling him into his corner, making sure he faced into the Octagon.

Rener crouched by his side silently as his other cornermen sat him down on the stool, patted his face dry, iced the back of his neck, poured water into his mouth. The minute went by in a heartbeat.

As he was standing up, Rener grabbed his arm. “That hit was one in a lifetime, you know that. A _lifetime_ , Punk. Don’t try that shit again.”

He knew Rener was right. He knew it. But he walked back to the center of the Octagon without answering, and when Rener had to leave the cage or risk disqualification, he felt the petty sense of having won something.

The second round went by in a blur. They stood up for the first couple minutes, circling around each other, Okami in the center of the Octagon, Punk on the outside. Punk found himself dropping his arms, trying to wait longer and longer before defending, just to make things interesting. Make Okami think he was tired, sucker him in, that was the rationale, never mind the fact that he was tempting a knockout.

Then, Okami took the bait. Punk was nearly at the cage, dragging as he circled, and Okami came in. He shot forward, went for the double. Okami had no defense and Punk got into mount immediately. He landed a left and a right, then pulled back, let Okami up. More takedowns, more points, he reasoned with himself. It had nothing to do with the rush. They circled and circled more and traded blows, but Punk never got another takedown opportunity.

The horn sounded, signaling the end of the round. In no time, he was being corralled back into his corner. The ritual was repeated all over again. A bag of ice was pressed to the back of his neck, and the cold steel of an Enswell was being pressed to the swelling under his eye. He wasn’t sure how many hits he’d taken, but he knew he wasn’t going to be pretty, come morning. By this point, he’d forgotten Cena even existed. Nothing existed, except for the fight.

“Would it kill you to keep your hands up?” Rener hissed at him, keeping his voice low.

Punk waved away the cutman and opened his eyes to stare at his trainer. “You wanna take my place?” he asked.

Rener growled in frustration. “Oh, maybe I will, because I actually want us to win this fight.”

“I’ll win, don’t _worry_ ,” Punk said, standing up from the stool. The bag of ice that his trainer had been holding to his back slipped and landed on the floor.

“You better fucking finish him, or you _won’t_ win,” Rener responded as he gathered his things and prepared to leave the cage.

He and Okami touched gloves to start the third and final round. Punk had to hand it to Rener; he knew him better than almost anyone. He knew what it took to properly motivate him. He went for the immediate takedown again. It hadn’t worked the first time, but by now, Okami was starting to get tired, no matter what the analysts spouted about his takedown defense percentage.

Rener had been right. He _was_ a killer. He scored the takedown, concentrated on control, transitioned into the mount, went for the ground and pound. Everything seemed slow, yet when he looked up at the clock, time seemed to be slipping through his fingers, pressing on him. A minute had passed, then two. Then, then he got sloppy. He was tired, or he’d been hit too many times, or he just didn’t care enough about what was going on inside the cage.

Okami twisted under him, managed to flip them over, and Punk was on his back again. He scrambled frantically to get into full guard as precious seconds slipped away. As he maneuvered his limbs, he thought frantically back to the second round, the hits he’d taken, the advantages he hadn’t pressed, and he knew with a cold clarity that Rener had been right about that too, that he would not win this fight if he didn’t do something.

Then, Okami made a crucial mistake. After nearly three rounds of fighting, he was tired too, and for an instant, he dropped his hand to the mat to support his weight. Punk took advantage of that momentary slip, grabbed his wrist and transitioned smoothly into the kimura lock. His muscles were burning, but he pulled it in tight, gave it all his muscle as Okami tried to roll his way out of it. He held on as if his life depended on it. He could not lose this fight.

He didn’t even hear the horn blow. One second, he was cranking the arm, and then next, the ref was grabbing at his back, trying to pull him away. His first instinct was to fight, but then reason reasserted itself and his training kicked in. He let go immediately, and at that moment, it began to sink in that he had won. He stood up in a daze.

People rushed into the cage, trainers and officials crowding around Okami to make sure he was okay. Punk backed up a few steps to give them room, but otherwise stayed where he was. Photographers, cameramen, journalists, milled around while they waited for the recaps to finish and the official decision to be read out. There wasn’t the sense of suspense that there was when a fight went to the judges’ scorecards, just a sense of finality, of wanting to get on to the more interesting part.

At some point, Rener came in and handed him his shirt. Punk would rather have left it off, but struggled to lift it over his head anyway. Gotta give the sponsors their money’s worth. Get that shit out there, pay some bills. Stitch poked and prodded at his face and someone iced his neck again.

Okami came to the center of the Octagon, holding his arm gingerly. He bowed to Punk in acknowledgement, and Punk bowed back. Then Herb Dean was standing in between them and Bruce Buffer was lurking behind, reading off a card. Punk got his hand raised, but that was just a formality. He turned to Okami to speak to him, but he was corralled by Joe Rogan for his post-fight interview.

“Congratulations on your win, Punk,” Joe said, as he would have said to anyone who’d won that night.

“Thanks,” Punk answered automatically. He had to struggle not to shrug Joe’s arm off his back.

"Before this fight, a lot of people were saying you wouldn't be able to stand toe to toe with an elite level fighter like Yushin Okami, and yet you just handed him his first ever submission loss. What do you say to those people?”

Oh, his critics. His ‘fans’, they liked to call themselves. Punk wiped sweat out of his eyes and his fingers came away sticky with Vaseline. "All the respect in the world to Okami, he's a great fighter and he comes from a proud tradition, but far too many people have been underestimating me for far too long."

Joe nodded understandingly. "What do you think was the decisive component in your victory?"

By some chance, Punk was looking across the cage at his corner. Right where John Cena was sitting. The seat next to him was empty. Eve was probably already standing off to the side of the cage, waiting to congratulate him when he finished with this shit.

Cena was looking down at his phone. Like it was the main fucking event, not what was going down in the cage. He couldn’t comprehend why Rener would let someone with so little respect step anywhere near this cage.

"I always perform better in front of an audience, Joe,” he said into the mic. “And do you know who's right here in Anaheim tonight? The Champ is here! Hi, John!" He waved manically in the direction of John Cena like a small child. He could see the confusion in Joe Rogan's eyes, but oh, was Cena looking at him now. "That's WWE Superstar John Cena,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to meet him,” he added in a stage whisper, shielding the microphone with his hand, as if it were a secret between them two.

Rener grabbed him by the arm before he could say anything else and pulled him towards the cage door. He could hear Rogan signing off the interview, but that was just background noise now. “What is _wrong_ with you?” Rener hissed as they cleared the range of any audio equipment. Punk let himself be dragged out of the cage and just laughed as a camera tracked him the whole way.

Rener let go of him when they were clear of the door. As he had predicted, Eve was standing there. She smiled and shook her head when she saw him. She was wearing the gold hoop earrings he’d bought her on her last birthday and they shone in the lights as she moved. Punk straightened himself up automatically.

“Congratulations, Phil,” she said softly.

He wasn’t sure what made him do it. Everyone was watching. Rener was mad enough at him already. He wasn’t sure how Dana would feel about what he’d just said. But he’d won. He’d won the fight that nobody thought he could. He pulled her in by the hips, wrapped his arms around her waist, and planted a kiss on her lips.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he whispered into her hair as he let her go. Her smile turned uncertain as he turned and headed straight to the locker room without looking back.

Rener caught up to him midway between the arena and his locker room. The rest of the guys had done what they’d correctly assumed he wanted and left him the hell alone. But not Rener.

“Hey. Hey!” Rener said sharply, grabbing his arm. He was getting so _fucking_ sick of being grabbed tonight. “What was that out there?”

“You didn’t hear?’ Punk asked sharply. “I’m fucking your fiancé.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Rener answered. “John Cena.”

“You tell me, you invited him,” Punk countered, bristling with resentment.

“Eve invited him. You know, the woman you’re supposed to be in love with.”

Punk immediately felt guilty. Of course he knew that Eve was in WWE. He knew that she worked with John Cena. He knew that as much as she was a fan of MMA, she didn’t like being alone at these events, and that her coworkers were in town this week. But couldn’t she have brought Daniel Bryan? Or at least Brie Bella?

“ _Sorry_ ,” Punk mumbled under his breath. Rener reached out— “And don’t grab my arm again, it fucking hurts.”

“Shit, are you okay?” Rener asked, instantly the picture of concern. Punk backed up against the wall and looked down at his bare feet. He’d lost his fucking flip flops, _again_. He’d have to go to Walgreens and buy more. “Hey, listen to me. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Not a scratch, see?” He spread his arms, palms up.

Rener studied him closely. Punk could tell he wanted to say something, but he just gave him a hard stare, and Rener sighed and backed down. Punk knew it was only for the moment, though. With Rener, you could delay, but you couldn’t escape. That was one of the reasons they’d always gotten along so well, as ironic as was at times.

“Are you hungry?” Rener asked instead, starting to shift into mother hen mode.

“Fucking starving,” he answered grudgingly. He hated being taken care of at the best of times, and he knew Rener was trying to sweet talk him out of his bad mood.

“Go cool down, get changed. I’ll get you those sweet potato fries you like so much.”

“And a diet Pepsi,” Punk added.

“And the largest fucking diet Pepsi in existence. Any other requests, killer?” Punk could see Rener starting to grin. It was just sinking in with him that they’d really done it. They’d won, and they deserved to celebrate a bit. It had been a hard few months.

“Wild mushroom risotto,” he said. Might as well go wild. They’d be ranked now. They had to be. “Whole grain pancakes. Bacon.”

Rener just shook his head, and after backing away a few steps, turned and left.

Punk closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He had to learn not to do this shit to himself, to just enjoy the moment. Rener was right, he needed to get back to his locker room and go cool down. A shower and a change of clothes would make a world of difference. Then maybe he’d feel more like himself. More like he was accomplishing his dreams.

Then he opened his eyes and noticed the flat screen in the hall, set up so that backstage personnel could monitor the progress of the event. Benson Henderson’s face flashed across the screen as the main event video package finished up, and the camera started panning across the crowd. Punk stared in disbelief as the screen cut to a tight shot of John Cena. His name and occupation were scrolled across the bottom, and Punk was sure if the sound had been on, he would have heard the announcers discussing his call out of the man. Breaking it down for the average fan. It had been his fault, Punk knew, but it tweaked his anger. Even worse was the stilted, uncomfortable way Cena was looking away from the camera in his face. Like aw, shucks, he just wasn’t used to that kind of attention.

He snagged a passing security guy. “Hey, you see that guy, John Cena?” he asked. The man nodded. “Do me a favor, go out there and get him, bring him back to my room. He’s by the blue corner,” he said, tapping the blue tape wrapped around his gloves. The guy just nodded again, he didn’t even say anything, didn’t ask who was asking and _that_ made Punk feel better. He started walking again, starting to pick at the tape around his wrists.

When Punk got to his locker room, divested of his gloves, he closed the door behind him, and dropped himself into the nearest chair. He opened the bottle of water he’d snagged on the way back, label removed of course, and chugged half of it, then poured the other half over his head. The adrenaline from the fight was just starting to wear off, replacing itself with exhaustion. He knew he should get up, stretch himself out, take a shower, but he just wanted to sit.

After a few minutes, he almost forgot that John Cena was supposed to be answering his summons. A couple minutes more, and he figured that Cena just wasn’t coming. It was annoying and a bit disappointing, but that was life, he figured. He’d shake himself out of this stupor, shower and change. Rener would come back, he’d eat, and life would continue.

Punk felt himself dozing off, and was half asleep when his door banged open. He sprang out of his chair instinctively, spinning towards the intruder with his hands up to fight. Then he sighed, feeling ridiculous.

“Where the _fuck_ do you get off?” a fuming John Cena asked, circling around him. The easy look, the casual smile, from before were replaced by hard edged anger and contempt. Punk liked it a whole hell of a lot better. It felt more honest.

“Language, John-Boy,” he reprimanded, rotating to keep Cena in his sights. “What would the mommies in the audience think if they heard you talk like that?”

“You don’t even know me,” Cena spat back, stepping towards him aggressively. “I don’t know what your problem is. I didn’t do anything to you.”

Punk circled away from Cena easily; Cena had to turn to face him this time. “You came to my fight, sat in _my_ corner. What is this, another stop on the promotional tour?”

“I was just sitting in the audience. Nobody even noticed I was here until youbrought it up. And I’m sure they didn’t miss the fact that I was sitting in _your_ corner. If that’s the kind of publicity _you_ want…”

Punk froze. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” he said coldly.

“It’s none of my business how you conduct your personal life,” Cena said, all too earnest all of a sudden. “But that was disrespectful, what you did to a man who I’m told is supposed to be your friend.”

Oh, the _rumors_. The last thing he’d wanted to do tonight was make them worse, and it was as bad as it got if even Cena was calling him out over it. He stepped forward, his blood warming up to a simmer.

“And you have nothing to worry about,” Cena continued, standing his ground. “Absolutely nothing. I’m not interested in Eve. You made a fool out of yourself for nothing.”

“ _That’s_ fucking disrespectful,” Punk told him. “ _She’s_ not interested in _you_. You shouldn’t even be mentioning her name.”

Punk had advanced on Cena without even noticing that he was doing it. He was angry again, adrenaline spiking in his system. He felt like hurting someone. He felt like hurting John Cena. Wiping that arrogant look off his face.

“You should probably take a step back right now,” Cena said. He had the gall to look amused.

Punk snorted. “You think I’m afraid of you? That fight out there? That was just a warm up, and you’re just a play fighter for Vinny Mac.”

“I have at least 50 pounds on you,” John said, planting his hands on Punk’s chest and pushing him. “Get real.”

Punk took a step back, let his retreat absorb the momentum. Stand your ground, be too stiff, and you fell. Bend with the current, and you survived. “Is that the best you got?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face.

“You got better?”

He was moving before the words were even out of Cena’s mouth, and what Cena had in power, he lost in speed and agility. Before Cena was able to get his guard up, Punk had given him a hard shove. He staggered back, swayed, then collapsed into a chair as the back of his knees hit the seat.

“Okay, I guess you got better,” he mumbled, mostly to himself Punk assumed.

They stared at each other for a few minutes, both catching their breaths. Punk couldn’t quite believe it, but he actually felt a bit better. Mollified. Cena looked sheepish, and right now, that was enough.

Finally, Punk broke eye contact and walked over to his bag. He fished out his change of clothes and set them on the chair next to him. He’d decided to forget about showering for now. He just wasn’t up for it. Back half turned to Cena, he pulled his shirt over his head and used it to towel off his face before tossing it aside.

"What are you doing?" Cena asked, his voice sounding high and slightly alarmed.

He loosened the drawstring of his white, nylon fight shorts, pushed them down over his hips, and let them fall to the ground before he turned Cena, who had risen from the chair and was standing stock still, as if mesmerized. “What does it look like I'm doing?" he asked, annoyance biting at tone.

He was hot and he was sweaty, and he was getting undressed. He didn’t see how that was something to argue about. But then he noticed the comical widening of Cena’s eyes as he stepped out of his shorts and kicked them away, the bobbing of Cena’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard. And he got it. He got it.

_You have nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing._

He felt like laughing. John Cena, clean cut, kid friendly, WWE Superstar. Attracted to him. That was so rich. And he acted like he was looking out for Eve’s honor, for Rener’s honor, when he was just jealous. It seemed like John Cena was just as petty as the rest of humanity.

To test out his theory, Punk maintained eye contact with Cena as he bent and pulled his compression shorts down his legs slowly. Cena followed the movement of his hands intently. He held his arms rigidly at his sides and swallowed again. The notion, which should have been as ridiculous as it was entertaining, slowly became compelling.

“Just how many layers are you wearing?” Cena asked, staring at Punk’s low rise black trunks. He bit his lip after he spoke, and his eyes widened, as if he wasn’t sure how he’d let those words come out of his mouth.

And it was just… it was just fucking adorable. He found himself wanting to see how far Cena would go. He smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

“Wha— _what_?” Cena asked, as if he hadn’t seen that one coming.

Punk shook his head. He should have known better than to think it would be that easy. He felt disappointment percolate through his system, and that’s when he realized something else. He was attracted to Cena. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d missed it, even with all the highs and lows that a fight night produced.

He’d see Cena every now and then, when he’d catch the odd Monday Night Raw. Dressed in his ring gear; jorts that hung low at the waist, brightly colored t-shirts. But he’d never really focused on him, never noticed him as anything other than a symbol, a figurehead. But to have him here, looking like a man, not an overgrown child, in his jeans and navy v-neck. To have Cena so clearly into him, even though he was the last person Cena should be wanting.

He reached down and to adjust his cup, which was starting to become uncomfortable. “Fuck,” he heard Cena mutter. He saw Cena’s hand twitch at his side, as if he wanted to do something similar.

“Come. Here,” he repeated. “I’m not going to offer again.”

Punk knew he was bluffing even as he said it. He needed this right now. Every second was making it more obvious how much he needed this. If he had to, he’d go over there and get Cena, but Cena didn’t know that. And he’d much prefer it if Cena came to him.

After a few agonizing seconds, Cena approached Punk cautiously. He stopped inches away, their bodies just shy of touching. Punk held himself purposefully still, allowing Cena to make the move.

Cena reached out slowly, touched the waistband of Punk’s underwear, fingered the Calvin Klein logo that wrapped around his left hip. Punk shivered as Cena’s thumb dipped below the elastic, brushed his skin.

“That’s not… off…” Punk said, stumbling over the words unexpectedly as Cena hooked the other side of his waistband with his left hand, pulled the material down slowly.

“Shit, you do have something on under there,” Cena observed, sounding nervous and bemused, as Punk’s jockstrap was revealed.

Punk put his hands over Cena’s, pushed them, and his underwear, down. “Keep going,” he said. Cena had to bend over slightly to push the cotton low enough on Punk’s legs that it would fall free. Punk put his hands on Cena's shoulders to stabilize himself while he stepped out of the fabric. He considered pushing Cena down to his knees, but Cena stood suddenly, and Punk was left with his hands practically around Cena’s neck.

“Good enough for you?” Cena asked, stepping into Punk so their bodies were flush.

“That’s. Yeah, that’s fine,” he answered. He had trouble concentrating on the words as Cena ran his hands up the back of his thighs, palmed his bare ass and squeezed.

Instinctively, he pushed his body into Cena’s. He could feel Cena’s erection press against his thigh through the rough denim of his jeans, but he couldn’t get any friction with his cup still in place. He groaned in frustration, and looked up, about to tell Cena to let him go, but Cena took this as an opportunity and kissed him.

For a second, Punk had no idea what to do. He hadn’t planned on this. But even though he hadn’t, he found himself reacting to it, wrapping his arms around Cena’s neck. Opening his mouth to Cena’s. And he felt… It felt good, too fucking good.

Swearing under his breath, he pulled away, made a clean break of it. Cena stepped forward, an arm half outstretched. Punk held a hand up, and Cena mercifully stopped, despite the confusion on his face.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked after a minute.

Punk looked up. Where he was nearly naked, Cena was still fully dressed. His shirt was rumpled, damp in spots where sweat had still clung to Punk’s skin. He thought he’d wanted him before. He thought he’d found him attractive before. What he felt now…

“No,” he answered quickly.  He reached down the front of his jock and pulled the cup out of its pouch and held it up.  “This was starting to hurt.”  Cena swallowed hard again as Punk tossed it with the rest of his clothes

“Yeah, I can see how that would,” Cena observed absently, his eyes on the narrow, plastic cup.  Then he dragged his eyes back to Punk, down to his groin, where his erection was now clearly visible through the pouch of his jockstrap.  “That’s it, right?”  His tone was strangled.

Punk laughed.  He couldn’t help himself.  It had been so long since he’d been in a situation like this, and he was starting to genuinely enjoy it.  “Yeah, that’s about it,” he said, cupping his balls as if to demonstrate.  He let his hand linger for a second longer than he needed to, stroking himself as he withdrew it.

“What about you?” he asked, moving back into Cena’s personal space. “You wearing anything interesting under there?” He tugged on Cena’s belt loop for emphasis.

“No.  Just boxers,” Cena answered.

“Let me see ’em anyway,” he said with a feral grin.

Cena made a small, indistinct sound in the back of his throat, then pulled Punk in by the back of his neck and kissed him again. Punk didn’t even have to think about it this time, he just responded.

As their tongues slid against each other’s, Punk brought his hands to Cena’s waistband, fumbled with the button and zipper for a second before getting it open. Without looking, he reached inside, found Cena had been telling the truth. There was just a thin layer of fabric between his hand and Cena’s dick.

As he stroked Cena through his underwear, Cena gasped and broke the kiss. He sounded almost like he was choking for a second and Punk quickly checked the piercing retainer in his lower lip, just to reassure himself that it was still there.

“God, do that again, _please_ ,” Cena said, his cheeks flushed and his breath short.

Punk shook his head. “Quid pro quo, Johnny. You’re a little overdressed for this party.” Cena just frowned at him. “It means—”

“I know what it means,” Cena snapped churlishly. He pulled his shirt over his head and balled it up in his hands almost nervously, despite going shirtless being more or less an everyday occurrence for him.

If Cena looked muscular on television, he was downright chiseled in person.  Even in the world of professional athletes, the man was built, and Punk couldn’t help but admire it. On his best of days, he couldn’t pull that off.

Punk took the shirt from Cena’s hands and tossed it aside. He put his hands on Cena’s chest, ran them over his pecs, down his _goddamn perfect_ abs, stopped at the waistband of his boxers, which Punk now saw were blue and white plaid. Adorable.

He looked up at Cena as he slid his hand down farther, past the elastic, initiating skin to skin contact. He felt Cena’s muscles contract in a full body shudder. He squeezed just a little, and Cena’s eyes drifted shut, his light, nearly translucent eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, his jaw tightening.

“Good boy,” he murmured into Cena’s ear as he withdrew his hand. Cena’s eyes shot open. He opened his mouth to protest. “Quid pro quo,” Punk reminded him, patting him on the hip before taking a few steps back.

Cena nearly stumbled over himself trying to toe off his sneakers. Next came the ankle socks, and Punk took full advantage of the way Cena’s open jeans exposed his ass as he bent over to peel those off. Fuck, he was looking forward to that. He folded his arms to keep from touching himself, because he wanted to see this all the way through.

Then Cena stood and pushed his jeans down his hips, shedding them and stepping towards Punk, naked except for his boxers and the dog tags hanging around his neck. Punk stared at the thick, muscular thighs that were usually covered by his ridiculous ring gear. Those could probably support a lot of weight, Punk found himself thinking. Could probably… No, he cut himself off.

Cena grabbed for him, tried to pull him in, but he didn’t want to be kissed anymore. He shook his head slightly, and Cena stopped. “Over there,” he said, jerking his chin at the wall.

Cena looked over at it cautiously. He blinked his eyes slowly, as if processing, and for a second Punk wondered if this would be where he lost him. If Cena wasn’t prepared to go all the way after all. But then he turned and walked over to the place Punk had indicated.

Punk followed close behind him. He was so focused on what he was going to do to Cena that he wasn’t paying full attention to the man himself. He wasn’t prepared for the arms that wrapped around his waist, tried to pull him in. He could feel Cena at his back, the wall precariously close, and he did what he was trained to do in that situation. He grabbed Cena’s wrist, spun out, twisted it behind his back as he took the superior position, pressed him face first into the wall.

Cena grunted as his body made contact with the wall, and Punk realized that he was doing.  He let go of Cena's wrist abruptly.  "Shit, was that… Did I hurt you?" he asked.

Cena didn't answer immediately.  He took a breath, then another.  He didn't move from his position against the wall, just rested his forehead against the cinderblocks.  "No, I'm fine," he said after a minute.  But he didn't sound fine.

_This is an ugly side of you. And I don't like it._

Punk stepped in closer, pressed a kiss to the middle of Cena's spine, ran his hands down his sides lightly.  When he got to Cena's boxers, he started to slide them down, but Cena put a hand over Punk's, stopped him.  For a breathless second, Punk thought everything was over and he didn't know how to deal with that.  "Quid pro quo," Cena said.  "Only if you take yours off."

"Just stay there," he told Cena as he pulled away, took a couple steps back.

Aside from moving an inch back and planting his hands against the wall, Cena didn't move.  Punk found his hands trembling a little as he pushed his jockstrap down, struggled with the straps a bit.  He hadn't realized it was possible for him to want this more than he had, but he did.

When he stood up, naked, he noticed Cena was looking at him over his shoulder.  Their eyes met.  "Like what you see?" Punk asked, brushing his fingers over his erect cock to emphasize exactly what he meant.

Cena nodded mutely.  The flush of red in his cheeks had started to move down his neck.  Punk's eyes trailed down as he imagined the blush traveling down Cena’s entire body. That’s when he noticed that Cena had managed to get his boxers off when he wasn’t looking.

Punk suddenly felt breathless.  That.  He needed that.  He moved toward Cena, who raised a silent eyebrow at him.  He felt himself flushing, and that was bad, but fuck, that ass. He was beyond pride.

When they were just inches apart, Cena moved his hips back, just a little, but it was way too tempting a target.  Punk took ahold of them, closed the distance between their bodies.  His dick slid along the crack of Cena’s ass, and it was almost too much.  He exhaled slowly, leaned his head against Cena’s back as he caught his breath.

Cena was breathing hard too, but, Punk suspected, for a completely different reason.  He moved his hips forward again, slowly this time.  Cena gasped, and his breath got caught in his throat, turning it into a gurgle.  Punk couldn’t help but chuckle as he leaned in, spoke directly in Cena’s ear.  “I hope you do that when I fuck you.”

A shiver ran through Cena’s body even as it tensed against Punk’s.  He laughed in response, but it was a breathy, barely there sound.  It turned Punk on more than it should have, but he wondered if this was an issue he should force.

“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he said, despite that being the absolute last thing he wanted.  He didn’t know if he could take jerking off in the shower, another night alone.

“No,” Cena forced out.  “No, I want…  Just do it,” he stammered.

“I thought you’d be the type to like it slow,” Punk said, rubbing the head of his cock teasingly over Cena’s asshole.

Cena pushed his hips back, and Punk could feel himself sliding into Cena.  He just wanted to sink all the way in, but he tightened his grip on Cena’s hips, forced them still.  “Easy,” he murmured.

“Shit. Shit, that hurt.” Cena muttered under his breath. Punk didn’t think he was supposed to hear it. “Are you going to… do you have anything to, uh…?”

It took him a moment to figure out what Cena was asking in his gasping lack of articulateness. The fact that he needed to ask made Punk realize, if he hadn’t already, that taking him raw probably wasn’t an option.

“Don’t move,” he ordered Cena, and crossed the room to his bag. As he fished through its contents, he glanced up and caught Cena looking at him again. He hadn’t moved, except to turn his head. He made quite the tableau, his hands pressed to the wall, his powerful shoulders tensed, his broad back tapered to his narrow waist, his firm, round ass sticking out, begging to be fucked. Punk groaned and grabbed the Vaseline he’d been searching for.

He realized at that moment his fingers closed over the tub that he’d completely forgotten about protection. He didn’t have any condoms on him; he definitely hadn’t expected to need any tonight. He thought about asking Cena if he had anything, but he knew that might be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Fuck. Fuck it. He’d been clean on his last test.

Cena watched intently as Punk scooped some Vaseline out of the jar with two fingers, spread it over his own cock.  Cena moaned low in his throat and his knuckles were white as he pressed his hands against the wall.  Punk hurried to rejoin him.

After grabbing another glob of Vaseline, Punk let the jar fall to the floor.  He wiped the excess off on Cena’s side, just below his rib cage, for later use, then stepped in so they were touching again.

A tremor shook Cena’s body as Punk’s slicked cock made contact with his skin.  The Vaseline made everything slide more easily, and he had to hold Cena’s hips still so that nothing would happen accidentally. “Easy,” Punk repeated.

“Fuck, just. More,” Cena said in a low, thready tone.  He was tense and keyed up, thrusting his hips back shallowly against Punk’s grip.

“Calm down,” Punk said as he reached around Cena and stroked his cock.  “Wouldn’t want this to hurt any more than it has to.”

He could feel Cena making the effort, gulping in air, letting it out slowly.  “Calm.  Yeah, I’m calm,” Cena said shakily.

Punk withdrew his hand, and Cena made a small whining sound in protest.  Not bad, but Punk liked the other one better.  He got some more Vaseline on his fingers and ran them down Cena’s spine, along the crack of his ass.  He circled Cena’s hole with his index finger.  Cena tensed, then relaxed.  He did it again, going just a bit farther.  This time, Cena thrust his hips back and his finger slid in, farther than his cock had, Cena’s muscles clenching around his finger before he pulled it out.

This was killing him.  He wanted desperately to hurry it along, and if Cena wasn’t complaining, was there any reason he shouldn’t?  He wiped more Vaseline off Cena’s body and sank a finger into Cena’s ass.  He was rewarded with a sharp yelp that turned into an odd squawking sound.

“Doing okay, Johnny?” Punk asked, his voice strained. He added another finger as he spoke, not even waiting for an answer. He angled his fingertips downwards as he thrust his fingers deeper into Cena’s ass, searched for his prostate.

“Ye—unh…” Cena broke off mid-word in an inarticulate gasp.

Taking that as a sign he was ready, Punk pulled his fingers out slowly, moved himself in position behind Cena.  He grabbed a bit more Vaseline, just in case, and lined himself up with Cena’s entrance.   Cena pushed back against him, just enough to make his desires known, not with frantic disregard for the consequences like before.

Holding Cena’s hips steady with left hand, he used his right to guide his cock into Cena’s ass.  He pushed slowly through the ring of muscle, the pressure almost agonizing, then all of a sudden, he passed it and slid home.  Cena grunted and his body caved slightly against the wall, but Punk was more concerned about himself.  He didn’t want this to end too soon.  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then another.

“You can move,” Cena said.  His tone sounded odd.  Punk didn’t know how to parse it.

Punk laughed, but he felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

He didn’t realize he’d collapsed against Cena until he had to grab hold of Cena’s hips to straighten himself up.  Cena seemed to be following him, leaning back into him, but Punk quickly corrected that, pushed his shoulders down so he was leaning into the wall again.

“Stay,” he said.  He pulled back deliberately, stopping when he was almost out of Cena, who mewled in protest.  He liked that. It was good.  It kept his concentration on Cena, away from the fact that he was about to completely lose his shit.

He waited until a count of three before he pushed back in.  He kept things slow, because if he started going, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop and Cena seemed like he needed a softer touch than that.  But Cena bucked against him and he slid in a lot faster than he’d meant to.

Fuck, it was like Cena was trying to kill him, here.   _Oh, Johnny, you’re just asking for it_ , he thought to himself as pulled out and pushed back in, this time not holding anything back.  Cena let out a huff of air, but he didn’t complain.  As Punk prepared to do it again, Cena moved his hand from the wall, wrapped it around his cock and started jerking.

Then he just let loose, started fucking Cena in earnest. Cena started thrusting his hips back in counterpoint Punk’s movements. And that was fine. That was good. Except maybe a little _too_ good. He slowed himself down deliberately, dug his fingers into Cena’s hips. Cena resisted his efforts, though, clenched his ass around Punk’s cock on the up stroke.   That’s when he felt himself start to lose it.

He held Cena’s hips in a death grip, trying to stop himself, but it was too late.  He was too far gone.  “Shit,” he swore into Cena’s back as he started to come.  Cena wasn’t helping matters any, either.  He was still trying to grind back against him, clenching his ass muscles.  He wasn’t even touching himself anymore.

If he’d been able to think, he would have wondered at the reasoning behind that.  As it was, he was barely aware of anything except his gaining his release.  He wasn’t even sure if it felt _good_.  He was breathing hard, like he’d run ten miles, sweating like a pig.  It was draining and embarrassing, and fuck.  Yeah, no, fuck, it felt amazing.

He came back to awareness slowly.  At least it seemed that way, but Cena hadn’t said anything, so it couldn’t have been more than a couple seconds.  He was still inside Cena.  He was still hard, but that wouldn’t last for long.

“So, was that good for you?” Cena asked.  His tone was an intriguing combination of shy and teasing.

Punk noticed that Cena hadn’t gotten off yet.  “I guess it wasn’t for you,” he observed dryly.

“No, it’s fine. I-- That was hot,” Cena said.  The back of his neck was flushed red again.  He brought his hand back to his cock.  His grip was loose to start out with as he got back into it.  Punk started to pull out to leave him to it.  “No, just.  Give me a minute,” Cena pleaded softly.

Fuck.  “Fuck,” Punk said under his breath.  He stayed where he was and slapped Cena’s hand away, replaced it with his own.  Cena grabbed his wrist, but he didn’t do anything try to stop him.

He jammed his hips against Cena’s as he jerked him off, trying to hurry this up as much as possible. He couldn’t keep this up for long. “Come on,” he muttered to himself as he changed his grip, increased the pressure.

“More,” Cena said in a deep, guttural groan.  Punk added his other hand into the mix, fondling Cena’s balls, grazing his fingers over them lightly.  Cena whimpered and his hand tightened on Punk’s wrist.  Punk gritted his teeth, pulled out an inch and slammed back in.  It was enough.

Cena made that sound, that fucking amazing sound as he came. Punk was sorry he didn’t have another round in him, but the friction Cena was creating with the movement of his hips was starting to go from uncomfortable to painful.

When Cena was done, Punk wiped his hand down Cena’s thigh, then pulled out of him carefully. Cena hissed in clear discomfort, and Punk felt like doing the same. But it had been worth it. It had been more than worth it.

Except now that it was over, Punk wasn’t sure what to do. As he was just standing there, Cena turned around and looked at him. His eyes were soft and satisfied, his lips curved into a smile. He looked so goddamn attractive.

Punk turned away, his eyes frantically focusing on anything but John Cena. He settled on a box of tissues sitting on one of the chairs and he grabbed it, took a few, and tossed the rest at Cena. “Clean up,” he said shortly.

So he didn’t have to watch Cena swabbing at his ass, trying to get as much of the come and Vaseline as he could, he turned and cleaned himself up. As Cena rustled behind him, hopefully getting dressed, Punk picked up his fight shorts and slid them back on. They were loose, designed to hang low on his hips and expose the waistband of his compression shorts, and they were practically translucent, but it made no difference to him. It was just something to do.

He turned around. He made eye contact with Cena and they exchanged a long look. Punk knew this was where one of them was supposed to say something, but he had nothing, and he didn't want to hear what John Cena had to say. As the adrenaline and the need wore off, he was starting to realize what he'd done, and he just wanted to be alone to absorb the impact. Take the hit and move on.

Cena broke first. He looked away, sighed and shook his head. He took a step towards the door. Punk was about to let out a breath of relief when Cena turned and walked towards him. He wanted to back away, but he held his body still. He refused to give an inch. Cena slid a hand down his hip, dragging down the side of his shorts to expose his pelvic bone. He looked at Cena while Cena looked down at the expanse of bared skin. Then Cena looked up and kissed him softly on the lips. "Thanks," he said in a whisper that Punk had to strain to hear. He turned and walked away before Punk could even begin to come up with a response.

His skin was cold where Cena had been touching it. That was the first thing he noticed. The only thing he noticed. He felt prickly heat flushing through his body, but that one spot was cold. He touched his hip lightly. The cold spread and he started to shake. He backed up to the wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. The cold seeped into his back through the cinder block wall. The cold seeped through his thin, nylon shorts.

He wrapped his arms around his abdomen, where the tattoo used to be. "Straight Edge." Those words had once meant everything to him. So much that he'd inked them permanently into his skin, except so much for permanence, because you could barely see them now that the laser removal had done its work.

_I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I thought this was something we shared. True ’til death._

He didn’t know when he’d become the type of person who would do this, who would fuck a stranger in his locker room because he could. Because he was horny. Because he had no regard for the consequences of his actions.

He sat there until Rener came back. When he noticed the door opening, for a second he wondered if it was Cena, but that was ridiculous. That was stupid. He didn’t want to see him again. He wasn’t going to see him again. He’d completely forgotten about Rener, and he was so fucking glad he hadn’t gotten back sooner, seen him balls deep in John Cena.

Rener was already looking at him askance as he entered the room. The room was a mess, and probably smelled something awful. The look only got worse as Punk got to his feet and Rener took in what he was wearing.

Punk grabbed the styrofoam takeout box Rener was holding to deflect, popped it open, and started shoveling fries into his mouth while they were still hot. The risotto would keep until later. God, he was starving all of a sudden.

“Are you wearing anything under that?” Rener asked.

“No, I…” Punk paused, using his chewing as an excuse to gather his thoughts. “I was getting changed and I got tired. I didn’t want you to come back and find me with my balls out.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Do I need to get a doctor?” Rener sounded so worried, Punk felt terrible even suggesting there might be something wrong with him.

“No. I’m fine. Nothing a little rest won’t cure.”

The lie burned, even though physically, he did mostly feel fine. His shoulder was bothering him again, but that was nothing new. He was exhausted and beat up, but he was making it out without any new injuries. In fact, the release he’d gotten from fucking John Cena had made him feel more than fine. Better than he had in ages, physically. But he just couldn’t put a finger on where his mind was at in all this. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t him.

“Then go hit the shower, the press conference is coming up soon. You can have this when you get out.” Rener held up the diet Pepsi for emphasis.

“You didn’t get the bacon.” Punk observed.

“You didn’t really want it,” Rener told him. And it was true. Rener knew him way too well for comfort.

“I wanted those fucking pancakes.  I’m not going to forget this.”  He wasn’t quite sure if he was joking or not.

He shoveled the rest of the fries into his mouth in record time, barely pausing to chew.  He closed the box carefully and set it down on a folding chair for later.  He grabbed a towel and his clothes, still piled up from before… _before_ , and headed to the showers, if only to escape Rener’s watchful eyes.

“Yell if you need me,” Rener called out after him.

“I _always_ need you when I’m showering,” Punk threw out as he disappeared around the corner.

He didn’t wait for a reply.  He hung up his towel, stepped into the tiled shower area, and turned one of the heads up to somewhere near scalding, He dropped his shorts in a pile on the floor, stepped out of them, and under the spray in a single movement.  

When Rener came to get him forty minutes later, he hadn’t moved from that spot.

 

**Post Fight Presser - Highlights**

Reporter 1: Question for Punk. Yushin Okami has never been submitted before. What was going through your mind at the moment you locked in the kimura, and when he tapped?

Punk: I wanted to win. [laughter from crowd] I was thinking I made some mistakes. I wasn’t sure if I was ahead on points and time was running out, so I just put my head down and focused on locking something in. When he tapped? Well, anyone would have. And if he hadn’t, I would’ve broken his arm and it would’ve been a technical submission.

Reporter 1: Would you have preferred that?

Punk: No, I wouldn’t have. What kind of person do you think I am? This is our livelihood, I’d hate to see anyone injured. Except maybe that loudmouth douche, Chael Sonnen. Does he still even fight?

 

Reporter 2: You called out WWE Superstar John Cena, who was seated in your corner, after your fight. Why did you do that? And do you really have a problem with him?

Punk: I got caught up in the moment.

 

Reporter 3: You were seen kissing Eve Torres, your trainer’s fiancé, as you exited the cage tonight. You’ve been romantically linked to her in the past. Were you jealous that she was sitting with another man at your fight?

Punk: That’s fucking disrespectful. I’m not going to answer that.

Reporter 3: Dana?

Dana: He’s right. That’s fucking disrespectful. Any person asking questions in that line will be ejected. Next.

 

Reporter 4: People have already been calling your victory tonight a fluke, a lucky break. How do you answer the critics who say you don’t have the technical skill to succeed at a high level in the UFC?

Punk: People? Who are people? Did you type that into a blog on the internet so that you could say that to me right now? Look. Everyone has critics, even pissant little gossip reporters like you. People’s opinions of you don’t change the facts, and luck’s for losers. If I have what it takes, I have what it takes, and you’ll see it eventually.

 

Ariel Helwani: You mentioned Chael Sonnen before. There’s been a lot of tension between you over the years. Do you see this as leading to a fight between you two? Or are you more concerned with chasing a title shot right now?

Punk: Look, I don’t need to fight him. I have nothing to prove to him. He just lost his second title fight against Anderson. A lot of people call Anderson Silva the best of all time, but a loss is a loss. As far as the title goes, of course I want a shot. But I don’t beg for title shots, I fight who they put in front of me. I’d fight you if Dana White asked me to.

Ariel Helwani: So you don’t agree that Anderson Silva is the best of all time? And do you think you can beat him?

Punk: Dude, that’s subjective. I have a lot of respect for him and what he’s accomplished, I’ll leave it at that. And yeah, I think I probably could beat him. Who knows, right?

 

**Post Fight Scrum - Highlights**

Question: After his fight, Brooks said that far too many people have been underestimating him. Do you feel like that comment was directed at you? And do you agree with his assessment?

Dana: If Punk feels like I've personally slighted him, he's never said anything about that to me, and as you know, he has no problems with speaking his mind. He's a dangerous guy and he wins fights, but a lot of people are convinced that his technique isn't there, that it's all some bizarre kind of luck. He's a polarizing figure for sure.

Question: Like when he called out John Cena after his fight. Were you upset about that?

Dana: [chuckles] I’m all for guys calling other guys out if it helps build fights. But I don’t see a lot of potential there. I don’t know what’s in Punk’s mind, but this guy rubbed him the wrong way, and he’s not shy about expressing his feelings. And _don’t_ start asking me about his personal life. It has nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with his fights.

 

 **TMZ** **:** **Phil Brooks -- Hooking Up With Trainer’s Fiancé...CAGESIDE; Calls Out John Cena**

[Picture: Phil “Punk” Brooks kissing his trainer’s fiancé, Eve Torres on August 18, 2012 while trainer Rener Gracie looks on]

UFC bad boy Phil “Punk” Brooks laid one on trainer Rener Gracie’s fiancé, WWE Diva Eve Torres, at UFC 150 last night...in full view of Gracie.

Brooks -- who defeated favorite Yushin “Thunder” Okami -- has been linked to Torres in the past few months (TMZ brought you exclusive photos from their romantic lunch rendezvous in Los Angeles this past June).

[Video: Phil “Punk” Brooks kisses Eve Torres August 18, 2012]

Gracie, member of the famed Gracie Jiu-Jitsu family, was later seen dragging Brooks away from the octagon. Sources close to UFC say they exchanged heated words in the back.

To make the affair -- pun intended -- even juicier, WWE Superstar John Cena accompanied Torres to the event. Brooks was noticeably distracted by Cena’s presence at Torres’s side -- even calling him out in his post-fight interview.

Gracie was not seen again, and Cena only returned to the arena after a trip backstage -- sporting an impressive limp, though sources could not confirm if there was a confrontation between Cena and Brooks.

This is not Brooks’s first encounter with a taken lady. Earlier this year, Bleacher Report published a list of the unavailable women Brooks has been linked to. Torres shares her place on that list with such notable hotties as WWE Diva Brie Bella, UFC fighter Miesha Tate, and UFC fighter Chael Sonnen’s girlfriend Brittany Smith.


	2. Double Or Nothing

**Sunday, August 19, 2012**   
**Los Angeles, California**   
**The Staples Center**

John woke up shaking. It was hot and dark, and, at first, he was completely disoriented. He wasn’t sure where he was. He was aware of stillness, so he decided he wasn’t on his bus, but in a hotel room. His own house hadn’t even been an option he’d considered. He collapsed back onto the bed. What time was it? Long before sunrise. Too early to be awake.

He had dreamed. He had dreamed of devilish eyes and a cruel smile. Skin covered in colorful ink. Hands on his hips, sticky with Vaseline. Fingers sliding inside him. A low, teasing voice, calling him _Johnny_. He had his hand in his boxers before he was fully aware of what he was doing.

As the images poured over him, he knew that it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real, it had happened. A hard cock, filling him up, moving inside of him. Another man fucking him, coming in his ass. A stranger’s hands jerking him off, fondling his balls. John groaned into the pillow as he came in his own hand, alone in his bed.

Afterwards, he lay there in the dark catching his breath, the heavy hotel blankets stifling him. More things started to come back to him. Los Angeles. SummerSlam week. Eve Torres, inviting him to the UFC event. Phil Brooks. As much as he’d struggled with his sexuality, as much as he’d wondered how his first time with a man would be, imagined it, looked forward to it, worried over it… he’d never expected it to be like that.

Somehow, he’d expected it to be a lot more like his first time with a woman.  He’d meet a guy, go out on a few dates.  They’d click, and then they’d go to bed.  Maybe it would be amazing and maybe it would be horribly awkward, but it would at least be something he’d thought about beforehand.  But he hadn’t even considered dating yet.  He told himself that it was because he didn’t have the time to commit to a relationship, but sometimes he suspected that he was still scared.

Then he’d run into Eve at the hotel restaurant Friday night.  He’d been planning on eating alone, taking a quiet moment before returning to the circus that was the WWE hype machine. She’d joined him, and, over dinner, told him that Rener had some extra tickets to his fight the next night, invited him to come along.  He’d thought it would be some harmless fun, so he’d agreed easily.  Everything had changed the minute Phil Brooks had walked out to the cage.  He couldn’t remember being so turned on by anyone else in his life, even when he’d been a teenager practically running off hormones.

If John had a type, it wasn’t Brooks.  Nothing about him was right.  He had bags under his eyes that made him look like he hadn’t slept in weeks.  He was just on the wrong side of skinny, his entire ribcage visible under his skin as he moved.  Then, there was the ink.  John had to admit, it was a work of art, not the random shit a lot of guys got these days; it just wasn’t what he was into.  But what he could appreciate on an objective level in a guy like Randy Orton, he found himself salivating over in Phil Brooks.  In pieces, he was just another guy.  As a whole, he was damn near perfect.

Even when Brooks had postured at John before the fight, the anger had only made him more attractive.  John had been confused, hadn’t known what he’d done to provoke that anger, until Eve had suggested Brooks thought John was interested in her. Implied, John had thought, that he was jealous. And he’d been disgusted.  Disgusted in the situation, and disgusted in himself, because he still couldn’t keep his eyes off of Brooks.

Brooks had kept staring at him throughout the fight when Rener wasn’t corralling him.  John didn’t know a lot about MMA, but he hadn’t even looked as if he was trying to win.  As if his one sided pissing contest with a man he’d never met before were somehow more important than getting the victory, and Eve had already explained to him how important it was to win in the UFC.  If management didn’t like you, even one loss and you could be out.  

In the end, Brooks had ended up locking in a nastier looking version of the kimura than the one John was familiar with, and his opponent had tapped. John hadn’t wanted to see Brooks in the flush of victory. He’d been bad off enough already, and while the jeans he’d been wearing had been loose, they wouldn’t have been able to hide everything. He’d pulled out his phone to check an e-mail he’d gotten while his eyes had been glued to the Octagon. He’d wished he hadn’t almost immediately.  Not only had he been thoroughly confused when he heard Brooks say his name over the loudspeaker, he hadn’t liked what he’d read in the message from Creative, either.

John groaned and rolled over in bed.  He so wasn’t prepared to deal with that.  He had to hope that it had been a mistake.  A typo, an oversight.  Something.  Something that had already been fixed, and that there was already a follow up e-mail to that effect waiting in his inbox.  He knew he should get up and check, but after last night, he needed every extra minute of downtime he could get.

He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but one minute he’d been arguing with Brooks backstage, and the next, they’d been getting undressed.  Exchanging kisses and grinding against each other.  And then Brooks had brought up fucking.  And even though he’d given John an out, John hadn’t taken it. He’d practically begged for it.

Afterwards, as he’d cleaned up as best he could with the tissues Brooks had tossed him, he’d come back to reality. He’d realized that he was standing in front of a complete stranger, trying to clean Vaseline and come out of his ass.  It had been impossible to get it all standing there, Brooks a few feet away, doing everything he could to ignore him. He’d stopped in the bathroom before leaving the arena, but there hadn’t been much more he could do in a cramped stall with other people around.

Sitting in the front seat of Eve’s ancient purple minivan on the way back to the hotel had been torture. He’d tried not to think about what had happened, but with the throbbing ache developing in his ass, it was becoming increasingly difficult to not to.  And with Eve right beside him, he felt guilty.  He didn’t know if Brooks had something going on with her or not.  It didn’t seem like the Eve Torres he knew, but what else was he supposed to think? She hadn’t said anything about the kiss he’d seen between the two of them, and he hadn’t been able to bring it up.  He didn’t know what would have happened if he’d had to talk about Brooks.

It had been a quiet drive.  Eve had looked almost disappointed in him when she’d dropped him off at his hotel.  She’d turned to him and said “I hope you had a good time.” In that moment, he hadn’t been able to avoid an image of her lying in bed with Brooks, tan skin against white sheets, talking in low tones.  She’d lower her eyes and blush prettily, and he would play with her long curls and smile at her, his eyes going soft and gentle.  Calling her “Evie” in that lilting tone.  The thought had made John’s chest hurt.  He’d left quickly, practically run through the door and into the elevator.

Too soon, John’s alarm blared into the darkness.  He was so startled he nearly jumped out of his skin. God, he was getting jittery. He reached out and slapped the alarm off. For a second, he just lay there, eyes closed, contemplating letting himself fall back asleep. Then, with a groan, he threw back the covers and climbed out of bed.  He couldn’t let down the people who were counting on him. That wasn’t him, no matter how much he didn’t want to face this day.

He made his way to the bathroom wearily, flicking on a couple lights as he went. He washed his hands, splashed a bit of water on his face. As he reached past the curtain to turn on the shower, he felt a haunting sense of déjà vu. When he’d gotten to his room last night, he’d made a beeline for the bathroom after dropping his keys and wallet on the dresser. He’d stripped as quickly as he could manage, stepped under water that was still lukewarm as it came up to temperature. This morning, he took the time to let the water get hot, kicked off his boxers and took care of his business before adjusting the water to just below scalding before stepping in.

The water had washed away the evidence, but it hadn’t done the same for the memory. He’d never thought of himself as the type of person to have a one night stand. He’d always believed that he was more into getting to know someone, becoming close to them. He’d thought that pleasure, true pleasure, came from intimacy. What had happened the night before had destroyed all those illusions, and what he was left with made him feel guilty, made him feel like a hypocrite.

And then he remembered Brooks standing in front of him, shorts hanging low on his hips, everything still visible through sheer nylon made translucent by sweat. Biting his lip like he wasn’t sure what to do next. He remembered that last night had been amazing. The fact that they hadn’t known each other beforehand didn’t change that. He’d said thank you before he left because he was grateful, not just to be polite. Because somewhere in his mind, he knew he couldn’t have asked for better.

John nearly choked at the thought. He opened his eyes in shock, and they quickly filled with water, leaving him blinking and sputtering. Stepping back from the spray, he tried to shake it off, but the fact remained. He had no real regrets. It may not have been what he always imagined, but Brooks had been careful and considerate, and more giving than he’d had any obligation to be in that situation.

After a minute, John realized he was wasting time. Despite what had happened, he still had the rest of his life to get through. He hurried through the rest of his morning routine, and just as he was grabbing his bag to head out, his phone buzzed with a message that the limo was waiting downstairs. When he got to the lobby, he walked directly outside and slipped into the car, ignoring the people hovering around the doors even at this early hour, the pressing paparazzi, the gaping fans, a few confused outsiders.

As the limousine was pulling away, he sighed in relief. He was usually better at that stuff. Normally, he would have smiled at a camera or two, signed some autographs, then begged off because of his other obligations. He hated the thought that his momentary impatience or bad mood could ruin someone’s day, or worse, their impression of the product, but more and more, -he was feeling the need for some space to himself.

Halfway to the studio of whatever morning show he was appearing on today, his phone rang. He had no desire to answer it, but duty and obligation were too far ingrained. He fished the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. He all but sighed in relief when he saw who was calling. He waited a beat as he put a smile on his face, then answered.

“Good morning Nicole,” he said as cheerfully as he could manage, because he knew it annoyed her. “I’m surprised you’re up this early.”

“Oh, please, John, I’m not a vampire. And I can’t even begin to count the number of times you got me out of bed at the crack of dawn for your stupid interviews.”

After nearly eight months, it was getting easier for her to talk about their relationship, and he was glad of it. He’d never meant to mislead her. The few months they’d spent together had been some of the best of his life; it wasn’t her fault she was the wrong gender.

“In that case, maybe you can do this one for me. I’m too tired for this shit today, and you’d look way prettier reading the weather.” He closed his eyes while he spoke, rubbed the gummy remnants of sleep away, and wondered how much makeup they’d have to slather on him.

“Oh, poor baby,” Nicole cooed into the phone. John had heard her snickering the second before. She wasn’t fooling him. “I heard you had a late night. I love Eve and all, but I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

John was taken aback at the mention of last night. Then he realized that Nicole had no idea what had happened between him and Brooks. There was no way she could. Eve had probably just mentioned that he’d been at the fight; that was all. He had the urge to blurt it all out, all of a sudden. Nicole had supported him when he’d come out to her, even though he’d broken her heart. She deserved to know. Hell, she’d probably be excited to know; she’d become his number one cheerleader after she’d recovered from the breakup.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but something stopped him. It was too new, too fresh. He needed some time to process, some time to adjust to the idea that his first time was behind him. And he didn’t want to talk about it over the phone, in a limo.

“Yeah, it was…” He hesitated, trying to pick out a word for what it had been. So much had happened, he wasn’t even sure how to process the entire fight card that had come before it. “Interesting,” he settled on.

“I feel like there’s a story there,” she said. She’d always been way too observant. “I’m going to let it slide for now, but don’t think I’m forgetting.”

“Never,” he answered affectionately. He could almost see her smiling on the other end of the line, sitting up against the headboard of the hotel bed. If phones still had cords, she’d be twisting it around her finger as her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Do you have time for breakfast?” she asked after a comfortable moment of mutual silence. “Brie is busy hanging off Bryan’s arm, helping psych him up for his match. And they were going to a vegan place, anyway.”

John’s heart sank. Creative hadn’t even told Bryan they’d bumped the match yet? For a moment, he wanted to believe that the line-up he’d gotten last night was wrong, or that it had changed again. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, because he knew that this was exactly the kind of shit that WWE pulled all the time.

“Sorry, Nicole,” he said, hoping he sounded natural when he was really going cold with anger. “I’m booked solid all morning. Go out with them. Get some tofu, or whatever the hell it is Bryan eats.”

“God, I swear sometimes I’d rather starve. Just do me a favor and sneak me some bacon with my lunch, please.”

“How about this? If you’re really good, I’ll take you out for a steak tomorrow night.”

She purred in agreement over the phone. “Throw in some wine, and we have a deal.” For a second, it was like they were still together. A part of him keenly regretted the breakup. He would have stayed with her, if had been up to him. She’d been the one to force him to confront his sexuality. And while he knew he was better for it, he missed having someone.

“It’s a date,” he said. He ended the call with a smile on his face. She always managed to cheer him up.

All too soon, he was whisked into a studio for his first interview of the morning. He tried to be friendly and cheerful as he greeted people, shook hands, and took pictures, but he’d had even less sleep than usual and hadn’t grabbed any coffee on the way.

Finally, he was seated behind a microphone, answering questions that were not only always the same, but usually thrown at him by a host that knew little to nothing about professional wrestling. He was just glad that he had a radio interview first, so he didn’t have to worry about being presentable.

After a half an hour or so of throwing him softballs, the host, who looked at least half as zoned out as John felt, started asking about the show.

“Are you excited to be cashing in your Money in the Bank against Alberto del Rio?” she asked, trying to sound upbeat for the people who would be waking up to her voice.

John sat up in his chair and leaned in to the mic. He fixed his eyes on the host as he answered, because he’d heard in one of his acting classes that that would make his sincerity come across better. “You know what? I am. It’s been a long time since I’ve been champion, and it’s great to have this opportunity. I intend to make the most of it.”

The girl looked taken aback. She’d obviously been on autopilot, asking him questions off a list, and he’d just strayed from the script. He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he took advantage of the pause and kept speaking. “I’m even more excited to see what Daniel Bryan does in his match against Kane. He’s a great young talent who deserves a shot.”

She rolled with it, and they spent the rest of the time talking about the young guys on the card, and John felt better with every second he wasn’t talking about himself. In his next interview, a TV morning show, he pushed the Daniel Bryan match early and hard, even sneaking in jokes about it while he was doing the weather. He didn’t know if anyone from WWE would be paying attention to what he was saying, but he figured it would get back to them eventually. Most things did.

After grabbing a quick breakfast, he spent the rest of the morning sweltering in the sun outside the Staples Center at Axxess, signing autographs. During one of his breaks, he sent off a couple texts, trying to set up a meeting with Stephanie, but Creative refused to be pinned down. John loved meeting his fans – he felt that signing autographs and taking a few pictures was the least he could do for the people who supported him – but he was relieved when the session was finally over.

After chugging a bottle of water and taking a quick trip to the bathroom, the first thing he did when he got into the arena was get a production tech to lead him to where Creative had set up. If they wouldn’t give him the time, he would take it. He had no idea why they were dodging him, anyway. He’d never been anything but completely cooperative.

Stephanie McMahon was seated at the head of a conference table, surrounded by an iPad, two laptops, and several sheaves of paper. Other writers and agents were scattered around the room, surrounded by similar detritus of their profession. Only Stephanie looked up as he walked in, and he went straight to her.

“Is this card I got last night correct?” John asked, holding up his phone to show the e-mail. “Did you really bump Bryan and Kane?”

“Yes, John, we did,” she answered calmly, pushing her chair a few inches back from the table and angling to face him. “I understand that you’re upset about that, but there simply isn’t enough time.”

So she had heard, and she didn’t look pleased. “There isn’t enough _time_? It’s a three hour show. I’d be glad to give up a few minutes, and I’m sure a lot of the other guys would, too.”

“That’s simply not feasible, John,” she responded, maintaining a stony, professional calm. “I understand that you’re friends with him—”

“This isn’t about me _or_ my friendship with Bryan,” John cut her off impatiently. The other writers in the room were starting to look up from their work. “If you don’t put him on, I think you’ll regret it later.”

“This is a business decision, and it’s already been made, John. It’s not up to you. I’m sorry.” Stephanie turned away when she was finished speaking, picked up her iPad and started scrolling down the screen.

And with that, he was dismissed. It stung. He’d thought he’d gained more credibility with management than that. To be told that his opinion didn’t matter, than his instincts weren’t relevant after a nearly ten year career, it hurt.

He left the room feeling numb. He only hoped they were more delicate with Bryan than they had been with him. He thought about finding Bryan and telling him what was going on, but he decided against it. They could do it. He wasn’t about to make this about him, and what he’d tried, and failed, to do to stop it.

John didn’t feel hungry anymore, but he knew he would regret it if he didn’t eat something. He shot a text to Nicole as he headed for catering.

_Lunch?_

He got a response in less than a minute.

_Sorry, just missed me. Still on for tomorrow?_

A part of him regretted it, but another part of him was relieved. There was too much he didn’t want to talk about with her; not yet, anyway. He thought if he could just get through today, it would all seem a whole lot easier.

 _Wouldn’t miss it for the world_ , he sent back as he was entering the catering area.

He went through the catering line quickly, fixed himself a plate of food he didn’t bother trying to identify, got some coffee, and sat down to eat. When he was halfway through his lunch, Bryan walked into catering. The way he searched the room and focused right in on John, John knew that Bryan had been looking for him. Word must have spread a lot quicker than he thought it would.

“I heard what you tried to do for me,” Bryan said without preamble as he sat down across from John.

John shrugged uncomfortably. It wasn’t just humility. He didn’t want Bryan to think he was doing him favors he didn’t merit. That it was because of their friendship. “It’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for anyone,” he said.

“Listen, I’m grateful, John. I’m incredibly grateful. But with the way Stephanie was sounding, I wonder if you shouldn’t be looking out for your own career first.”

“My career isn’t worth a whole hell of a lot if I can’t help bring up the next generation,” John said, frustrated.

A lot of the fans on the internet liked to accuse him of holding down younger guys, of needing to always win. But if anything proved that it wasn’t his choice, it was this. He felt like he no longer had any control over his own career, much less his life.

“Then maybe you should have tried harder,” Bryan said. John looked up sharply, but then he relaxed as he processed the wry humor in Bryan’s voice.

It surprised John that nobody in WWE thought that Bryan could talk. He was quick witted, self-deprecating, and genuinely funny. Some days, he couldn’t figure out why they’d even hired him. To pull in a few fans from the internet? To take him away from the competition? It certainly hadn’t been to see him succeed.

John had to admit he’d been skeptical about Bryan at first, too. He’d been too full of himself, too full of the system that had brought him up, made him a star. Then he’d started dating Nicole, and he’d ended up spending a lot of time with Bryan. Gradually, he’d started seeing what people saw in Bryan, and a friendship had grown between them, a friendship that had lasted even when his relationship with Nicole had ended.

He grinned despite himself. “Yeah, next time. We’ll be in the main event together. The day after, I’ll be out on my ass, but it will have been worth it.”

They laughed about it, a little more than the joke merited. Then the conversation strayed to other topics while John finished eating. After that, they went their separate ways. Bryan had an afternoon session at Axxess, and John had his match to prepare for.

John took one look at the door to the communal locker room, and pulled aside one of the backstage assistants. He didn’t usually insist on a private locker room, but today he wanted to be alone. Holding the company line, being a company man, seemed like too much of a chore right now. If word about what had happened with Creative had started circulating, he didn’t want to look like a failure in front of his coworkers.

Alone in the room that was now labeled with his name, hastily written on a sheet of lined paper with a green Sharpie, John unpacked his bag for later, set up his shower things so he could grab them quickly after his match. He made sure there were towels in the shower area. Then he pulled out his gear and changed quickly, folded his clothes and stacked them on top of his roll along.

He should head out to the ring now, he knew that. Instead, he sat down, closed his eyes, and just breathed. He gave himself a solid ten minutes of doing nothing, thinking about nothing. He tried to, anyway. As he relaxed, his mind strayed back to the night before. Phil Brooks standing across from him, hair a tousled mess. He’d looked lost, adrift. And John had just wanted to hold him.

John shook his head clear of the thoughts. This wasn’t helping, and if he stayed her any longer, he might actually end up being late for his run through. He stood up and headed out to the arena. His segment with Alberto del Rio was pretty straight forward, so he was hoping this wouldn’t take long. At the last minute, he remembered to grab the Money in the Bank Briefcase. It had only been a few weeks, but he already hated carrying it around. He’d be glad to get rid of it.

When he got down to the ring, Jericho and Ziggler were already down there, even though John knew that their time wasn’t until after his. They were sitting behind the announce table, which didn’t have any of the A/V equipment set up yet, scripts set out before them. John gave them a casual nod.

Alberto was all business. There were no pleasantries here. They went through everything, top to bottom, with a bunch of production guys, a road agent, and their referee. They talked about lighting, camera angles, the announcers, everything, to exhaustion. Usually John relished putting together a match, but there was nothing special here, nothing to capture the imagination.

When they were done, John dropped into an empty folding chair in the timekeeper’s area. Alberto came up beside him, leaned casually against the barricade.

“Hey. I heard you got beat up by a UFC fighter last night,” he said.

John shrugged, trying to play it off like it was no big deal. “That’s not what happened.” Inside, he was panicking. He hadn’t really expected word of that to get back to the wrestling world. And if it had… The worst thought of all occurred to him. Was there any danger of Brooks saying anything about it, telling someone that wasn’t all that had happened?

The thought terrified John, but he tried to clamp down on it. Brooks had no more reason to want people to know what they’d done together than he did. Maybe less, even. He’d have to out himself too, and even though John didn’t know a whole lot about the UFC, he thought he would have heard if there were any openly gay fighters out there. It was a pretty small world.

Alberto smirked, like he knew something John didn’t. “Oh, yeah. Then why you got that black eye, huh?”

John instinctively lifted a hand to his cheekbone to feel for an injury, even though he knew there was no black eye. He’d studied his face carefully in the mirror several times to check for any damage from when he’d hit the wall face first last night. Apparently satisfied with having made John flinch, Alberto laughed and walked away towards the back.

“Don’t worry, you can barely see it,” Ziggler said, looking up from his pages. In typical fashion, his hair was held back from his face by a pair of pink, plastic sunglasses that he wore like a hairband. He’d recently touched up his roots, and it looked like he’d gotten a significant portion of his scalp with them.

John gave him a hard glare as he resisted the urge to touch his face again, feel for the black eye that he was almost certain wasn’t there. It wasn’t that he had a problem with Ziggler. The kid was a great athlete and a decent talker. But ever since John’s breakup with Nicole, Ziggler had been far smarmier than he usually was. John was sure he wasn’t imagining it.

Without saying anything, John got up and stalked off. “Don’t let it bother you, kid,” he heard Jericho say behind him as he rounded the ring and left them behind.

 

Even after all these years, John still got jitters around the time the doors were about to open. They usually cleared up by the time the show went live, but at half past three, he was still walking around backstage, trying to shake the nerves out. He was by one of the side entrances to the still empty arena when he heard his name being called. He turned and saw Eve standing a few feet away, waving him over, with Rener by her side.

“Hey, I didn’t know you would be here,” John said as he walked over, genuinely glad to see them, no matter how last night had been. In this business, you needed all the friends you could get, and neither of them had done anything. It was just -- He froze when he saw that Phil Brooks was standing next to them, slightly to the side, so that John hadn’t seen him until he got closer. He had a scowl on his face, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his gray Gracie Academy hoodie.

“And you brought another guest,” John added inanely, his throat suddenly feeling dry. Somehow, he’d thought he’d never see that man again. That seemed ridiculous now, considering the connection between them.

“Yeah, we ended up with an extra ticket, and Phil jumped at the chance to come,” Eve said with an easy smile and no indication of irony.

Brooks gave John a sour look that made him certain that had been, at the very least, an extreme over statement. And that was when John saw it. The small, gold ring in his lower lip. That hadn’t been there the night before. He’d noticed there was something, a hard spot, when they’d kissed, and he’d figured it was a piercing, catalogued that tidbit away. He hadn’t realized how the sight of it would affect him.

Of all the things he shouldn’t like about Phil Brooks, this was possibly the most attractive. It slammed into him like a freight train. It was all he could look at. People around him were talking, but he was thinking of pressing Brooks against a wall, tugging on the ring with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth. Kissing him breathless, and then. Shit, of course that wouldn’t be enough. He’d want… he wanted… so much more.

“And, of course, you didn’t get to formally meet Rener,” he heard Eve saying.

His mouth moved automatically, saying the appropriate things he was so practiced in, but his mind was still fully engaged in Brooks. He was staring, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. Worse, Brooks knew it too. He was trying to hide a smirk, but to John, it was obvious.

“… mind hanging here with John for a few?” Eve asked Brooks, oblivious to the subtext between the two of them. At the mention of his name, John came back to reality to notice that she was looking in the direction of some of the other Divas who had gathered in a group just down the hall.

Brooks looked at Rener desperately as Eve turned and walked in the direction of the other girls. Rener just shrugged helplessly as he let himself be dragged away. John watched for a second as Eve talked excitedly with Layla El. Then he turned back to Brooks, who was staring at the same thing.

“I wouldn’t have come,” Brooks said, almost sullenly, not looking at John. “But she wanted me to, and I couldn’t exactly explain why it was a bad idea.” He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his hoodie.

“That’s fine,” John heard himself saying. He wasn’t sure what possessed him. Brooks looked at him finally, only to raise a disbelieving eyebrow. They stared at each other awkwardly for a few minutes. “You might like the show,” John said. “We have a lot of great matches on the card.”

John felt like an idiot, spouting the company line, but he was having a hard time stringing any other words together. Especially after seeing Brooks watch Eve walk away like that. And when he’d said “She wanted me to.” He was having a hard time interpreting that as anything other than a request from a girlfriend.

“You know, I can take care of myself,” Brooks said, leaving the pitch completely alone. “I don’t need someone to watch me.”

Yeah, he was probably right. John knew that. Brooks probably didn’t need someone to babysit him while he stood there, feet away from the person who had brought him, but technically WWE rules forbade it. And he found that he didn’t want Brooks to go.

“You shouldn’t exactly be alone back here,” he said. “And it looks like they’re going to be a while. Do you want to, uh, check out catering?”

“Whatever,” Brooks said.

John was at a loss, but when he started, Brooks followed, walking at his side, hands in his pockets, scowl firmly in place. The catering area wasn’t too far away, and mercifully, there was a scattering of people present. Not enough to make it crowded, but enough to give them a buffer if they needed it. He found a table, and Brooks took one of the chairs, slouched down and folded his arms across his chest. John remained standing.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked awkwardly. “Coffee, tea? There’s food…”

Brooks looked suspiciously at the catering line, as if he were afraid something on it would jump off the table and bite him. “Coffee is fine. Black.”

John got the coffee and a bottle of water for himself and returned to the table. He sat opposite Brooks and pushed the cup across the table to him. Brooks wrapped his hands around the disposable paper cup in front of him, but made no move to drink. John did the same with his water, crinkling the plastic nervously.

After a minute, he looked up and was startled to meet Brooks’s eyes. He had an intense focus to him, like he’d been studying John. He didn’t back away when it was clear John had noticed, like most people would have, but he did relax, lean back in his chair casually, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Then he did the oddest thing. He smiled, and he finally took a sip of the coffee.

John wondered if he should be saying something about the night before. Brooks had mentioned it obliquely, but he hadn’t seemed interested in getting any more into it than that. John didn’t see how he couldn’t be, because they’d shared something last night, something intimate. Something that had changed him, and he didn’t see how it couldn’t have changed Brooks too.

“That’s some bruise you’ve got there,” Brooks said finally, gesturing at his own right cheekbone to indicate the area.

“Fuck, really?” John asked. Management was probably going to kill him if he went into the match with marks that couldn’t be explained by wrestling injuries. But he trusted Brooks not to be fucking with him, and at least it wasn’t the black eye he’d been obsessively checking for all day.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Brooks said quietly. For the first time, he looked completely serious, completely sincere.

John swallowed. He felt like extending a hand, wrapping it around Brooks’s on the coffee cup, assuring him that everything would be okay. But he didn’t know that. He didn’t know him, didn’t know why that brief, frightening moment had happened between them. He did know that Brooks had been as shaken as he had, if not more.

“I know you didn’t,” he said. He was convinced of that, and he tried to convey it. Someone who’d meant to hurt him, who’d enjoyed hurting him, wouldn’t have stopped to make sure he was okay, been so tender afterwards when they’d been so adversarial before.

Brooks nodded again, and looked away, his eyes scanning the room and then settling on nothing in particular. They sat there, not talking, for nearly ten minutes before Eve and Rener came to find them. They talked idly for a minute – Rener and Punk needed to find their seats, Eve had a meeting with creative – and then Brooks stood up. Again, John was reluctant to see him go, but there was nothing he could do to stop it this time. Besides, he had his own work to do.

He watched them leave with a sense of regret that he couldn’t quite hone in on. Nothing was going to happen here tonight, he knew that. That door, if it had ever existed, was closed. And then, as he was about to round the corner that would take him out of view, Brooks looked back at him, ran his tongue over his lip ring, and winked. John had to sit there for a few minutes before he could even think of getting up from the table.

On the way back to his locker room, John was grabbed by a production assistant to discuss his match, and after that things got so busy he didn’t even have time to think about Phil Brooks, something he was grateful for.

Before he knew it, he was standing at the gorilla position, waiting for his entrance music to hit. He could see the video reel playing silently on a tracking monitor off to the side. The minutes, then seconds counted down, and then it was time. He always got a rush when he was out under the bright lights. No matter what went wrong, no matter what was going on in his head, this healed him.

John ran to the ring, not caring whether the crowd was cheering or booing him. He struck his signature pose, smiled at the hard camera. And that’s when he noticed Phil Brooks, sitting ringside in the friends and family seats. He didn’t know why that stopped him up. He’d known Brooks was out there, somewhere; maybe he’d just assumed he’d be in the nosebleed seats or in a skybox somewhere. Not somewhere he was used to looking for his parents, for his ex-wife, when they’d still been married.

He started to get an inkling of what Brooks had felt when he’d seen John at his fight. There was a routine to all of this; it was all produced down to the smallest detail. Anything out of place took you out of it. He turned away, looked to the end of the ramp while he waited for Alberto’s music to hit. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for that man. Especially not now, when he needed all his concentration for this match.

The match unfolded just like it had in practice, no surprises, no deviations from the plan. Alberto called it, and he took the beating, made his big comeback. As he did his signature moves, he caught himself looking ringside, his eyes searching out Brooks. He took more than one stiff kick while his attention strayed.

Once, he caught Brooks looking back at him, and their eyes met for a split second. John wanted to vault over the ring ropes and kiss him senseless. The urge was so overpowering, he didn’t notice that Del Rio was coming at him with a particularly vicious kick. He dropped to one knee as his leg gave out under him. Del Rio stared down at him in confusion, disgust evident on his face. Then he shrugged, and went for another kick.

As John tried to sell convincingly for Alberto, he could imagine Brooks, smirking from the audience. He told himself that he was just doing his job, and the more pathetic he looked, the better he was doing it, but the thought of losing in front of Phil Brooks was galling. Finally, they got to the finale. He took the German, let himself be counted down while Alberto held a perfect bridge, then collapsed in defeat.

Alberto del Rio’s music played, filling the arena with its strains of triumph. As John rolled out of the ring to make a quiet exit, he couldn’t help but sneak one more glance at the spot where Brooks had been sitting. Rener was still there, but the seat next to him was empty. John felt the seeds of disappointment in his chest and he realized that he’d wanted Brooks to see him work. Worse, he’d wanted his approval, even though he knew how unlikely that was.

When he got behind the curtain, John took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. All things considered, that could have gone better. His ass still ached from the night before, and in addition to the bruise on his cheekbone, when he’d changed into his ring gear, he could have sworn he’d seen finger shaped bruises starting to develop on his hip. Add to that Alberto’s stiff kicks, and he’d be feeling this for the better part of a week.

The physical effects weren’t even the worst part. He’d gladly let himself get beaten within an inch of his life for the sake of a good match, but no matter how much he’d wanted it to be, this hadn’t been a good match. The crowd had been hostile from the start, and it had only gotten worse from there. It wasn’t about his ego. It would be one thing if the crowd had been entertained, but the jeers coming at him had sounded a lot more like boredom.

John left the gorilla position before Alberto had a chance to get backstage. Maybe none of it had been his fault, either, but he didn’t think he could muster up anything complementary, much less congratulatory, to say, and he didn’t want to get into an argument he’d only regret later.

As he walked away from the stage and towards his locker room, he saw Brooks leaning against the wall, typing on his phone.  He was chewing on his lip ring and he looked thoughtful.  His eyes glinted as he paused for a second, then resumed typing.  It stopped John completely in his tracks.

He’d thought last night had been a one night stand. Even after running into Brooks backstage, he’d still considered a repeat out of the realm of possibility. But in this moment, with Brooks standing right in front of him, John knew that he needed him. He needed the release, needed to feel the way he had last night. He needed something to fill the void.

John walked up to Brooks. “Hey, come with me,” he demanded. If he could be summoned, he could summon just as well. He’d explain when they were in private. He didn’t even consider the possibility that he might be rejected.

Brooks looked up at John, no surprise apparent at his sudden appearance. “Why should I do that?” he asked.

John gritted his teeth. “Come. With. Me,” he repeated, grabbing Brooks’s wrist and tugging on it.

Like the last time he’d tried to move Brooks, he gave up a couple steps, then stopped and stuck. John looked back at him – their eyes met – Brooks grinned at him nastily. “Oh, you should have just _said_.” he murmured. He pulled back his arm, but gestured for John to lead the way.

John resumed his walk towards his locker room, Brooks following obligingly behind him.  He’d been so certain a minute ago, but now his mind was a confusion of emotion.  The fear he hadn’t quite had the time to feel the first time around.  Wonder at how Brooks managed to read him so easily.  And need.  A need for this man that overwhelmed him with its intensity.

As soon as they were in the locker room with the door closed behind them, John had Brooks in his arms.  He pulled their hips together frantically, pinned Brooks back against the door as he kissed him, the fabric of his sweatshirt rough against John’s bare chest. He’d almost forgotten about the piercing when he felt it, cold against his lips.  He pulled back to look at it, admire it up close.  Then he leaned back in, took the ring between his teeth carefully, ran his tongue over the metal.  It warmed up rapidly to his touch.

Brooks made a sound low in his throat, which John took for approval.  He’d never kissed anyone with a lip piercing before, and it fascinated him more than he’d ever thought it would.  He paused between kisses to explore it, worry the ring with his tongue, tug on it with his teeth.  He found himself wondering what it felt like from the other side.  What it would feel like, sliding down his cock.

At that thought, he bit down harder than he’d intended to, and Brooks, who had been pliant and willing up until that point, grunted in displeasure, shoved at John.  John pulled back immediately.  “Does that hurt?” he asked, not just concerned, but curious.

“Of course it hurts, that’s my lip, not a fucking chew toy,” Brooks said, touching the ring, checking… something.  John wasn’t sure.  “And get the fuck off me, I think I’m getting a bruise from this doorknob.”

He shoved John harder this time, and John stumbled a couple steps back.  He noticed that it wasn’t just an idle complaint. In his hurry, he hadn’t noticed that he’d pushed Brooks into the knob. He looked on contritely as Brooks rubbed his back.  “Hey, are you--”

Brooks looked up, a vicious glare in his eyes.  “What do you think?” he asked.  He unzipped his hoodie, chucked it at John’s face. John caught it easily.

Starting to feel a bit peeved himself, John balled it up, and threw it back.  He missed and it hit the wall and fell to the floor.  “Why are you even wearing that anyway?  It’s like 90 degrees out.”

“I like layers.” The answer was short, but contained a hint of humor.

"Yeah, I noticed,” John said. His felt his cheeks flush at the memory. “You got anything interesting under there?"

Brooks smiled for real now, showing teeth. "Well, that depends on what gets you going." He reached for the hem of his t-shirt, which John now saw had some kind of logo in white against the black cotton, maybe a band logo. Before he had time to fully register it, Brooks pulled it up and over his head in a swift motion.

“That… that’s a pretty good start.” John said as he stared at Brooks’s tanned skin, taut over defined muscles, at the ink flowing down his arms, across his chest. His breath quickened as his eyes glanced over the snake and skull, took in erect nipples that he’d love to run his tongue over, suck into his mouth…

He took a few steps forward without noticing he was doing it. Brooks raised his right hand and placed it on John’s chest. Not to restrain him, John thought. Just to get a hold of the situation. He wrapped a hand around Brooks’s wrist, felt the soft down of hair growing in new, the prickle of goose bumps, invisible beneath the swirling colors.

He lifted Brooks’s arm, turned it palm in. He was leaning in to kiss his palm when he saw it. Scabbed crescent impressions in his skin. He remembered digging his fingernails into Brooks’s wrist as he came. That hand, wrapped around his cock, coaxing his climax out of him. Delicate wrist. Long, articulate fingers.

John pulled Brooks in by the waist, and Brooks stumbled forward, unprepared. Unlike last night, there was no protective gear between them, and if John had to guess, he would say that Brooks wasn’t wearing much of anything under his jeans, from the way he could feel Brooks’s erection against his thigh. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Brooks asked with a knowing smirk, as he pushed against John. John held him in place, slid his hand down the curve of Brooks’s spine, past the waistband of his baggy jeans, already riding low enough, to encounter the waistband of a pair of even lower rise underwear.

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice low and guttural; practically unrecognizable. “Yeah, I want this.”

Brooks’s right arm was trapped between them, John’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. He lifted his left, brushed John’s cheekbone with his knuckles. “Be sure you know what you’re asking for,” he said.

“I want you,” John insisted. He didn’t have to think about it. It wasn’t even a choice at this point. “I want you to fuck me like you did last night.”

Brooks leaned in and kissed John, and John felt his heart skip a beat. It was the first time he’d initiated, and John hadn’t been expecting it. “That’s something we can make happen, Johnny,” Brooks murmured, so close his lip ring brushed John’s skin as he spoke.

 _Fuck_ , he thought. It was almost a little too much, hearing that name in that voice. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly, trying to talk himself down. He didn’t want this to end before it even had a chance to start.

His eyes snapped open when Brooks started to pull back. “What—?” he asked, confused. Had the offer been snatched away as quickly as it had been given?

“Why don’t you get undressed,” Brooks said, already toeing off his sneakers. He had what John could only interpret as a knowing smirk on his face. “And take those kneepads off first, you look like a doofus.”

John turned away as he took his wrestling shoes, then his socks. Then he pushed the kneepads down his legs and got rid of those, too. He knew he looked a bit goofy in them, but it beat the hell out of landing on the mat without them. A bit calmer, he started to unbutton his shorts.

“Turn around,” Brooks said softly, from closer than John had expected.

He turned around slowly, to see that Brooks was naked except for a pair of trunks, the same style black and gray Calvins from the night before. John regretted not being able to strip Brooks himself, but the sight was reward enough. He took it in hungrily, his eyes wandering from delicate ankles, up developed calves, to powerful thighs, and finally, to the bulge in his underwear.

Brooks caught him looking, blinked slowly as he brought his hand up to cup his balls, stroke his dick deliberately. The material stretched around it as his hand moved, defined the shape of his erection even farther, and John could already feel the muscles of his ass clenching in anticipation.

“You good?” Brooks asked, his voice rich with amusement.

“Yeah, I’m good,” John said, despite the fact that he was clutching his belt so hard his hands were turning white. “Where do you want me?”

Brooks scanned the room. “Over there,” he said, nodding his head towards the far wall. Someone had set up a long table against it for some purpose long forgotten, but there was an expanse of bare wall between that and the door to the shower area.

John let his shorts drop to the ground and stepped out of them before backing up to the wall, turning his head to watch where he was going. When he looked up, Brooks’s eyes were on him, studying him intently. Roaming over his body. Somehow, in all of this, he hadn’t considered that the attraction was mutual.  That Brooks had wanted him, not just someone.

It turned him on even more, but it made him nervous at the same time. He wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his boxer briefs, wishing he had the casual confidence Brooks seemed to radiate from every pore of his body. Brooks blinked again, swallowed, and walked over to John, just shy of touching, boxing him in against the wall.

Brooks dropped a few condoms onto the table next to them. John hadn’t even noticed that he was holding anything; he’d been too distracted by Brooks’s body. But now that he saw them, he felt a shard of panic cutting through his arousal. He hadn’t even thought of condoms the night before. Had he put himself in danger because of that oversight?

And then he realized something else. Brooks had come prepared. He must have been expecting this, thinking about it. For all he acted like he wasn’t the one who wanted it, he was just as invested.

“Let me take these off for you,” John said, bringing his hands to Brooks’s waistband. Brooks nodded, and John pushed them down slowly, over Brooks’s hips, down over his thighs. There was nothing underneath this time.

His breath caught in his throat. That, that had been inside him. Would be again soon. He reached out, took Brooks’s erection in his hand. He’d never touched another man’s dick before, and he reveled in the way Brooks sucked a breath in, his abdomen going concave, his eyes drifting shut. John stroked slowly, ran his thumb over the head. Brooks almost whimpered. John found himself wanting to hoist him up by the thighs, turn around, press him against the wall, and go at it. Fuck him within an inch of his life, and see what sounds he made then.

“That’s enough,” Brooks said, cutting into his fantasy. John snapped back to reality, looked at him questioningly. “If you want me to fuck you, we’re going to do it right this time.”

John nodded as he pulled his hand back, swallowing hard. He did want that. No matter what else he wanted, he wanted that, especially if it was all that was on offer. And if he thought Brooks was saying what he thought he was… Last night, when Brooks had been fucking him, he hadn’t thought about anything but getting him to finish. Making him come inside him. He hadn’t meant to embarrass Brooks, and fuck if he hadn’t gotten off on it, but maybe it had been wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it.

“Just tell me what to do,” John said.

“You look nice in blue, Johnny, but you’d better get those off,” Brooks nearly purred, his eyes dropping to John’s sky blue boxer briefs. John found his heart fluttering at the compliment as he stumbled to obey, working with the limited space between them.

When he was finished, he looked up to see Brooks reaching for a condom. This was it. This was going to happen. As Brooks tore it open, he noticed the words “latex free” and “extra lubricated” on the foil, but then he was distracted as Brooks dropped the wrapper back on the table, slid the condom on with practiced ease.

Brooks stepped in closer until there was practically no space between him and John. Their cocks brushed, and John shivered at the contact, the lube slippery against him, still a little cool, not quite warmed up by Brooks’s body heat yet. “You think you can hold yourself up?” he asked.

“Yeah,” John answered. He’d been beat up during his match, but he wasn’t about to allow that to hold him back.

Brooks grabbed John’s thigh, hoisted it up around his hip, pulled John’s hips forward a bit. That was all it took, and his dick was right there, sliding along the crack of John’s ass, brushing against his asshole.

“Shouldn’t you, uh, prepare me or something?” he asked breathlessly. Now that it was happening, he felt a fluttery panic, remembered the first time Brooks’s cock had slid into his ass accidentally, when he’d pushed back without warning. It had hurt more than he’d expected. Later, when he’d been lubed up, it had been fine, but he was still worried.

“This should go easy,” Brooks told him. John wasn’t sure what he was basing the knowledge on, but he sounded confident. “Just relax.”

Brooks maintained eye contact as he pushed in slowly, and John tried to relax as much as he could. He had to admit, Brooks was right, it was a lot easier than the first time, even without being stretched out beforehand. He was still pretty loose down there, and having real lube, even the kind that came pre-applied to a condom, made a world of difference.

“Now tell me, did that hurt?” Brooks asked softly, his voice slightly strained.

John shook his head. “No, that didn’t hurt. That feels so fucking good.” He could feel his cheeks get hot as he said it, saw the smile curving Brooks’s lips as he no doubt saw the blush.

“This is gonna feel a whole lot better, then.” Brooks pulled out slowly, teasingly. He held himself there, and when he didn’t push back in, John tried to move his hips forward, but he was trapped between Brooks and the wall, and he had no leverage.

“Please,” he said. It sounded suspiciously like a whimper to him, but it did the trick. Brooks slid his free hand up John’s thigh, grabbed a handful of ass cheek and massaged it as he buried himself inside John again. At this angle, it felt like he was going even deeper than last night and John bit down on his lip and groaned helplessly.

After that, Brooks didn’t bother teasing him anymore. He thrust in and out, varying the speed and pressure. It was exactly what John needed. Just to be fucked, to feel Brooks inside him, giving him pleasure, taking it. He closed his eyes for a while, just enjoyed it, enjoyed the blissful emptiness of his mind. His dick hung heavy between them, almost painfully erect, begging to be touched, but he didn’t even care.

John completely lost track of how much time was passing. There was a part of him that didn’t care if they ever finished. Then, Brooks pulled out all the way and thrust back in, and it felt… almost uncomfortable. He opened his eyes. Brooks thrust in again, harder than the last time, and John definitely felt the friction. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but he couldn’t quite hold in a responding grunt.

“Problems, Johnny?” Brooks asked in that low, teasing voice that made him go crazy. It made him clam up, want to do anything to avoid ending this.

“No. No problem,” he insisted, but Brooks kept looking at him. “It’s just, ah… getting a little dry? It’s okay. I can manage.”

But Brooks shook his head slightly. He reached down and wrapped his hand around the base of his cock to keep the condom in place as he pulled out. John felt an intense sense of emptiness and he heard himself whine in protest. He hadn’t even known he was capable of making that sound.

“We can’t have you getting uncomfortable, can we?” Brooks asked. “This is your show, after all.”

John frowned. “I’m not forcing you to do anything. We can always stop.” It was the last thing he wanted, but he hated the idea that he was in this alone, absolutely hated it.

Brooks stroked John’s thigh as he let his leg down to the ground, stepped back to let him stand under his own power. John thought for sure Brooks was taking the bait, that it really was over. But Brooks didn’t back away any farther. He just pulled the condom off and dropped it on the table and reached for another foil packet. With a grin, he handed it to John. “Do the honors?” he asked.

John took it with trembling hands. He was familiar with the mechanics; he had plenty of experience putting condoms on his own dick, but it was completely different now that it was someone else. He tore open the package, and, following Brooks’s example, dropped it on the table with the other one, with the used condom that had been in his ass only seconds ago. He felt his blush, pretty much permanent at this point, start traveling down his neck.

He tore his eyes away from the table and turned back to Brooks. He pinched the tip of the condom and rolled it down over Brooks’s cock slowly, making sure his fingers skimmed over his skin as he went. Brooks didn’t make a sound, but his eyes drifted half closed, and he shuddered, a slow, full body shudder. John made sure to go over the condom again, smooth out any air bubbles.

Brooks reached out and grabbed his arm. John looked him in the eye, expected more teasing, more of the glib catering to his desires that he had been getting. But Brooks’s eyes were deadly serious, and his fingers dug into John’s skin. When he spoke, his voice was low and thick. “I want to be inside you,” he said. “Is that okay?”

John nodded mutely. He backed up against the wall, helped get himself back into position. Brooks felt even better going in the second time. He moved slowly, this time. He leaned in, kissed John’s neck, rested his head against John’s chest for a moment before pulling back. Everything had a different quality to it.

Their eyes connected, and Brooks moved faster, angling to hit John’s prostate. John felt pressure building inside him, until he needed to touch himself. He didn’t know if he expected Brooks to stop him, like last night, but he didn’t. His hands were occupied anyway, one holding up John’s leg, the other running up and down John’s thigh, fingers occasionally squeezing down on his flesh.

Brooks looked down at John’s hand, started timing his thrusts to John’s movements. Brooks was starting to breathe hard. His jaw was clenched, and blunt nails increasingly started to dig into John’s skin. John remembered the wild rush he’d felt the night before, when he’d known Brooks was close, when he’d felt him start to come. He tried to thrust his hips forward, but once again, their position prevented him. He was starting to realize why Brooks had picked it.

“You can… if you’re ready…” John stuttered.  

“No,” Brooks said. “I want to feel you come while I’m inside you.”

John arched his back against the wall, gasped in air like he was suffocating.  He was so close, so fucking close, that was almost enough to push him over the edge.  He grabbed Brooks’s hand, almost instinctively, held on with crushing intensity. Brooks thrust into him one last time, hard, and it was enough.

John slumped against the wall, bonelessly.  Brooks was still moving inside him, slow, jerky movements now.  John’s hand was on his softening cock, and he moved it idly, aftershocks rippling through him.  He opened his eyes lazily, smiled at Brooks.   Brooks adjusted his grip on John’s leg, hitched it up higher as he leaned in, pressed his face to John’s neck as he started to come.

John didn’t realize their hands were still intertwined until Brooks pulled his away, used it to hold the condom in place as he pulled out again.  John watched Brooks tie off the condom and drop it on the table with the rest of the garbage.  It was a casual, easy gesture, as if he’d done it a thousand times.  John couldn’t help wondering who else he had been with.  Who else he was with right now.  And he tried to push away panicky thoughts of the night before, when they hadn’t used anything, when he’d let a stranger fuck him with no protection.  And how he wished they could do it that way again, despite the mess, despite the danger, wished that he had Brooks’s come trickling down his thigh right now. Something to remind him, other than this dull ache inside him.

Brooks went to pull away, but John wrapped his arms around his waist and held him close. It was surprisingly easy to keep him there, considering the way Brooks had manhandled him the night before. John had a lot of weight and strength on him, but he thought that in a fight, Brooks would win. He was trained for it. But Brooks wasn’t really trying to escape, he only made a token effort to pull away, shoved lightly and ineffectually at John’s arms.

“Give me a minute,” John murmured, pressing his face into the curve of Brooks’s neck.

"You get _one_ ," Brooks answered grudgingly.

He was true to his word. He stood there and let John hold him, even rested his hands on John’s hips, leaned in slightly. It ended up being more than a minute. It might even have been as many as two and a half before Brooks started to get restless. John pulled away regretfully.

Brooks took a step back and they stared at each other. John wasn’t sure what to say, any more than he’d been sure last night. Finally, he edged away, grabbed his shower kit and his clothes. “I’m just gonna clean up,” he said in Brooks’s direction.

John saw Brooks nod in his peripheral vision. He was already bending over, scrounging his clothes off the floor. John held his ground for a long moment. He felt a sinking sensation in his chest. He was sure that if he left, the room would be empty when he came back, that this would be it, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted that. Brooks didn’t look up, and John went back to the showers. It was already over. He couldn’t change that by staying.

He took his time, letting the hot spray soothe his aching muscles, lathering up his body wash, cleaning off the sweat and grime of the ring, as well as the remnants of his encounter with Brooks. When he finally felt clean, he turned off the water, toweled himself dry, and dressed slowly.

“I thought you were going to stay in there forever,” John heard an acerbic voice say as he exited the shower area.

He looked up sharply and saw that Phil Brooks was still in his locker room. He was fully dressed, hoodie included, reclining on a folding chair with his feet propped up on a second. The legs of his jeans had ridden up, exposing an expanse of bare ankle above the top of bright orange ankle socks. They looked a lot like a pair John had himself, he found himself thinking as he stared, transfixed. Brooks cleared his throat, and John tore his eyes away from the sight.

“I didn’t expect you to still be here,” he said stupidly.

Brooks shrugged. “Yeah, well, I can’t be out there by myself, right?”

It looked like they weren’t going to talk about it. That was… fine, John decided. It had been what he needed, and now it was over. It didn’t make a difference that Brooks kept surprising him, sneaking up on him when he least expected it.

John went to gather his ring gear off the floor, but it wasn’t there anymore. Then, he noticed it, piled on a chair near his bag. He looked over at Brooks, but he was staring intently at his phone. It looked like he was playing some kind of game. After packing his things haphazardly and zipping his bag shut, John looked over at the table where Brooks had casually strewn foil wrappers and used condoms. He’d been dreading the thought of having to clean that up. But that, too, was gone. In fact, it didn’t look like anything untoward had happened in here, which was more than he could say for the way he’d left Brooks’s locker room the night before.

John looked back at Brooks. He was still resolutely concentrating on his phone. Well, if he didn’t want to be acknowledged, then John wouldn’t acknowledge him. “I guess we should go now,” he said with a sigh.

Brooks slid his phone in his pocket and hopped up. He gave John a wide berth as he walked towards the door. He popped the lock and stepped out into the hallway, tearing the paper nameplate off the door as he left. He crumpled it in his hand, and shoved it in his pocket.

The silence got to be too much for John. “Was this your first WWE show?” he asked mechanically as they walked down the hall together.

“Yeah,” Brooks answered, sounding slightly nonplussed.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” John cringed internally. He backtracked quickly.   “The show, did you enjoy the show?”

“The _show_ was kind of shitty, John.” Brooks was walking ahead of John, but John could just hear a smirk in his voice.

He didn’t even bother protesting. He knew it was at least verging on the truth. He kept telling management that they weren’t going to gain new viewers this way. And then there was the other part of that statement. The implication that the rest of it hadn’t been. God, two times in as many nights, and his blood was still boiling. He wished he could drag Brooks into another room, go another round.

As they walked towards the arena, John noticed that there were more people milling around backstage than before. The show must be over. He knew he probably should have been around to shake Triple H’s hand, maybe offer Brock a cordial nod, but after the fiasco with Bryan, even if Hunter had had nothing to do with it, which he wasn’t sure about, he didn’t think he could have handled it anyway.

“Hey, there you two are!” Eve’s voice carried over the din of voices echoing against concrete. Rener was with her, confirming John’s suspicion that the show was finished. John froze in his tracks. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he was relieved when Brooks spoke first.

“Sorry, I got lost,” he said. He didn’t sound at all apologetic, but neither Eve nor Rener called him on that.

“You got lost?” Rener asked incredulously. “You’ve been gone for nearly an hour.”

John felt like he should say something, but he didn’t know what. He looked over at Brooks nervously. Brooks blinked slowly, then turned back to Rener and shrugged. “You know how I get about watching Brock sweat all over people.”

“Just tell me you didn’t ditch me to play Song Pop on your iPhone,” Rener said, looking comically worried by the prospect. For his part, John breathed a sigh of relief that the conversation was moving on. Brooks just shrugged again.

“We were just going to grab some dinner,” Eve said, effectively ending Brooks and Rener’s standoff. “You’re more than welcome to come along,” she added, that last part directed at John.

He considered the invitation. He tried to avoid looking over at Brooks to see what he thought of the it, but even without looking, he could feel the waves of hostility rolling off him all of a sudden. He figured he’d better not. It was awkward enough without inserting himself in the middle of Brooks, Rener, and Eve, whatever that situation was.

“I’d love to, but I have to get to Fresno,” John said quickly. “Early morning tomorrow.” He was conscious, even as he said it, that it was just shy of 8 pm, and riding on his bus, he’d have more than enough time to make it.

“Okay. Maybe another time.” Eve looked disappointed, and John was almost sorry he’d turned the invitation down. Then Brooks moved from his side, stood next to Rener, and John caught a glimpse of his expression. He looked… confused, John though. But he didn’t have time to process that.

“It was nice to finally meet you, John,” Rener said, and reached out to shake John’s hand.

“Likewise,” he answered. Rener was genuinely funny, a great guy, and obviously perfect for Eve. He just wished he knew what was going on between the three of them.

Rener and Eve both turned to Brooks. John realized after a second’s delay that they expected him to say something polite. John wasn’t about to bet on that happening, and he wasn’t sure how anyone who knew Brooks could, either.

“This is a nice little circus you got here,” Brooks observed dryly. Any emotion that had been on his face was completely gone. “I expected at least a tiger, though.”

“I’ll be sure to get that for next time,” John answered good-naturedly, enjoying the joke.

“There won’t be a next time,” Brooks said with finality. He stalked away, leaving Rener and Eve to follow him, and John to stand there and watch him go.

 

**TMZ: Punk seen at SummerSlam**

[Picture: UFC Fighter Phil “Punk” Brooks seated ringside at WWE Summerslam on August 19, 2012]

We reported yesterday about WWE Superstar John Cena’s unexpected appearance at UFC 150 in Anaheim. It appears that tonight at SummerSlam, Punk returned the favor. Punk was seated ringside next to his trainer, Rener Gracie, also the fiance of WWE Diva Eve Torres. Torres was not on the card tonight.

Cena – who was reportedly involved with a backstage altercation with Punk last night – came to the ring sporting a bruised cheekbone not present in pictures taken yesterday and was noticeably slower than usual.

Off camera reports state that Punk left the arena some time before the end of John Cena’s match and did not return to watch former UFC fighter Brock Lesnar wrestle. Although no love has been lost between the two, Lesnar is a long time, albeit occasional, training partner of Punk’s, first at the jiu-jitsu school of Rodrigo Medeiros in Chicago, Punk’s hometown, and later in Punk’s gym at the Gracie Academy.

More intriguing is the situation with Cena – did a fight break out last night? Have the two made their peace? And what part does Torres play in all of this? Cena is a heartbreaker in his own right, having recently divorced, and having notably dated and dumped Diva Nikki Bella.

 

**Los Angeles Times - WWE SummerSlam 2012 Round Up**

The WWE hype machine was out in full force ahead of SummerSlam, one of their “big four” pay-per-view events. The week leading up to the show was a highlight reel of WWE Superstars and Divas doing good deeds and showing up at all the right places, attempting to borrow all the glitz and glamor that Los Angeles can provide.

But if you feel like you’ve seen this show before, it’s because SummerSlam is returning to the Staples Center for the third year in a row. Despite the high profile musical performances, the usual celebrity appearance, and even the attendance of notable fight world celebrities such as Rener Gracie and Phil “Punk” Brooks, the event itself was just as lackluster as much of WWE’s programming has been in recent years.

With a card headlined by the returning Brock Lesnar, former NCAA heavyweight wrestling champion, former WWE Champion, and most recently former UFC Heavyweight Champion, and Triple H, who now spends more time wearing a suit than in the ring, WWE has not only failed to advance critical storylines, but has left viewers with even more questions than answers.

Of all the ongoing storylines, none has been muddied as much as the WWE Championship picture. Since last month’s Money in the Bank pay-per-view, WWE has established two contenders, and summarily knocked down one of them.

At Raw1000, just a couple weeks ago, The Rock returned to the WWE yet again to announce that he has been granted a title shot at the upcoming Royal Rumble event in January, against whoever is the champion at that time. But just who he will be facing remains unclear.

Will it be John Cena? Smart money says no. After this year’s loss to Rocky at Wrestlemania 28, all speculation points to a rematch at Wrestlemania 29. WWE will want to save this marquee match for the so-called “Grandest Stage of Them All.” It’s also hard to see how WWE could possibly shoe-horn Cena back into this storyline. Ever since John Cena won the Raw Brand MITB match via a controversial breakage of the briefcase’s handle, rumors have swirled that he was not the intended winner. If so, it makes sense to have him dispose of the contract ASAP, and indeed, he quickly announced that he would take that match at tonight’s event. Given John Cena’s character, it was expected that he would give advance notice rather than cash in on a vulnerable champion. But it is the babyface’s clean loss to the unpopular heel champion which perplexes many fans, seemingly ending his potential bid for the title.

What about the current champion, Alberto del Rio? It’s hard to imagine WWE going that way. Yes, he is a past MITB winner, and a successful one, at that. Yes, he is a Royal Rumble match winner. But to many fans, ADR remains unremarkable, unmemorable both in the ring and on the microphone. Aside from that, rumors swirl about his poor attitude backstage and his lack of desire for longevity in the business, cardinal sins among the community of smart fans on the internet. Another strike against him: holding the championship since October’s Hell In A Cell. His is one of the longer title reigns in recent history. Keeping the title on him until January would put his name in the history books right next to those of the all-time greats, which surely isn’t in WWE’s plans for him.

If John Cena was, in fact, not the intended winner of the Raw Money In The Bank Contract, it could be that that match was intended to create a new contender that would eventually face The Rock at the Royal Rumble. Those opponents were all former WWE Champions themselves, and included Kane, Big Show, Chris Jericho, and the Miz. Of these men, only Big Show was close to the briefcase when the handle broke, but these matches can turn on a dime, and can anyone really imagine the Big Show in a match against the Rock?

 

**Bryan vs Kane Bumped – Cena High On Bryan**

Last minute changes to a card aren’t uncommon in professional wrestling. In fact, the words “Card Subject To Change” have almost become a punchline. However, any big changes are usually due to an injury to one of the parties.

Thousands of attendees and millions of viewers were left perplexed when one of the marquee matches of Summerslam was canceled at the last minute – in fact, viewers were not even notified of the change.

This match, Daniel Bryan vs. Kane, had a bizarre genesis to begin with. Starting out as a means of promoting Charlie Sheen’s new show, Anger Management, Sheen quickly pulled out of the feud, leaving Kane claiming to be Bryan’s “anger management therapist.”

Since then, however, the feud between Bryan and Kane has been fraught with humor. Many fans, especially the smart fans, began looking forward to this match more than any other on an admittedly weak card. John Cena himself promoted the match heavily the very morning of SummerSlam.

Then… nothing. They weren’t knocked down the card or demoted to the pre-show, a forgettable performance with a nonetheless desirable outcome where IWC favorite Antonio Cesaro defeated Santino Marella for the United States Championship. Nothing was announced, and no news has leaked from backstage.

This begs the question – what happened to the match? With a musical performance, a recap heavy show, and a Triple H vs Brock Lesnar match that went on longer than many felt appropriate, plus an early ending to the pay-per-view, there would have been plenty of time.

And what is John Cena’s part in all this? It’s thought by many that he’s been responsible for holding down promising talents in the past to guarantee his own spot on the roster. But this time, he went to bat for the match. Did he know something? And when? Is this a sign that John Cena’s backstage power is on the decline? His own match was a relatively short 20 minutes, and a clean loss, making him the first person to cash in Money in the Bank and lose.


End file.
